


Entwined

by purplewitch156



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Character Death, Cliffhangers, Drama, Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, No character bashing, Not a Dark Harry Story, Original Character(s), Post Battle of Hogwarts AU, Redemption, Romance, Sci-Fi Elements, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplewitch156/pseuds/purplewitch156
Summary: Voldemort has won. Hogwarts and England are his, but satisfaction is fleeting when Harry Potter, who vanished during the battle, begins to appear in his dreams, fighting for survival in a frigid waste land. As Voldemort grows close to Harry, murderous intent gives way to lustful desire and when he succeeds in bringing Harry back from the Drift, their lives are irrevocably changed forever.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 1146
Kudos: 1785
Collections: Alice adore them 🥰, Harrymort/Tomarry Recs for the Soul, Stories that really butter my bread, Yukikawa’s HP Bookshelf





	1. Part One: Chapter 1

**“You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom.”**

**― Fyodor Dostoevsky, _The Brothers Karamazov_  
**

* * *

Voldemort stood in his quarters, watching twilight settle its cloak over the Hogwarts grounds. His reflection was a ghost in the glass. A ghost with hellfire eyes.

_“I don’t know where he is! Nobody does!”_

The memory of Mundungus Fletcher’s petrified voice reverberated through Voldemort’s mind. The dirty thief had been snatched up earlier that day, but he was a waste of a prisoner. Two seconds with the man had told Voldemort that. Fletcher was useless. He knew nothing.

_Where are you, Harry?_

Two months since the battle of Hogwarts. Two months since the dregs of the Order had scuttled under leaves like cockroaches. Two months since he had claimed victory of Britain. Two months since Potter had vanished without a trace.

Spells ricocheting in close proximity was never a good idea. Voldemort still did not know what had hit the boy. With the blast of a bomb, a crater the size of a house had appeared right on the spot where he had been standing. Only his wand remained. At first, everyone assumed Potter had been blown to pieces — Voldemort included — but upon closer inspection, Voldemort had sensed the subtle threads of teleportation vibrating in the air. It was not Apparition that sizzled against his skin, but something different. Something even Voldemort had never come into contact with. The magic felt almost … inside out.

“He’s done a runner!” Fletcher had babbled, crouched and shaking on the floor, unable to meet Voldemort’s blistering gaze.

In the window’s reflection, Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, frustration growing. Harry Potter did not _run away_. He was not a coward, regardless of what his Death Eaters jeered, regardless of the lies he had the _Daily Prophet_ spin. He wanted — _needed_ — Potter dead. The more time that passed without his head mounted to his wall meant a greater risk the Order would gain influence again, spreading their whispers of hope, infecting weak hearts.

 _“He survived the Killing Curse. Twice. Only a Dark wizard could do that.”_

Even in his own ranks, doubt festered. Voldemort heard their quiet musings: _what if_ Harry Potter was a stronger wizard than they’d assumed; _what if_ he was stronger than their master? Were they at this very moment wondering if they should seek the boy out, not because their Lord ordered them to, but because they wished to gather around an even greater force?

 _“Why did the Dark Lord go after the boy in the first place?”_ he imagined them saying. _“To snuff out a rival, that’s why.”_

The anger lashed out without warning. The window cracked as his magic surged. Armchairs tumbled, tables skidded, papers scattered. With a flat, cold glare, Voldemort extracted his wand from his robes. A gentle wave and the room righted itself, crystal decanters piecing themselves back together like jigsaw puzzles, books zooming to their proper places, candles reigniting.

Fear and intimidation could only go so far. Like it or not, Harry Potter’s death was the key to his security. All he had to do was _find_ him.

Of course, he could already be dead …

Voldemort closed his eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. He detested thinking of the boy. He detested that Potter still took up precious space in his mind. He was victorious in every regard — Hogwarts, the Ministry, Britain — and yet Harry Potter defied him.

**xXx**

Harry was not having a good day, but then again he hadn’t had a good day since he’d appeared here. Days in the Drift were one of three types: terrible, worse, and why-did-I-bother. He inched along his current branch, reaching out for another nut to work loose. Today made sixty-one days in the Drift; sixty-one days since he’d appeared knee-deep in snow; sixty-one days of sleeping on a frozen, cave floor; sixty-one days of scavenging for dead Hoppers to gut and cook; sixty-one days of chalky, bitter nuts.

Sixty-one days. Were sixty-two worth it?

 _Stop it,_ Harry ordered himself harshly. _Don’t think like that._

But what was the point? He’d given up expecting to find a way out of the Drift. He’d given up expecting someone — Hermione, Ron, McGonagall — to rescue him. So why was he still bothering? Why not … let go?

Harry looked down through the branches. The Black Tree was at least thirty feet tall, as high as the goal posts on the Quidditch pitch and he was in the top most branches. A drop from this height would certainly break bone. Would it crack open his skull? Would it snap his spine, his neck, if he landed right? Would death be instant?

Catching up with his thoughts, Harry shivered, instinctively grabbing hold of the branch beneath him with a stronger grip. To even consider … to seriously contemplate suicide … _Don’t you give up now. Don’t you dare._

Maybe it was time to get back on solid ground. Harry made sure his sack was secure on his shoulders before slowly beginning his decent. The Black Tree’s bark was unnaturally smooth and slippery. A red oil-like liquid pooled in crooks and if he wasn’t careful and kept his feet clear of those particular pockets he really would have a nasty fall. Such a very thing happened on day two, falling ten feet and spraining his ankle so severely, he’d been cooped up inside the cave for a week. It was lucky he’d found the cave when he’d arrived. If he hadn’t … well, he wouldn’t have had to worry about day sixty-two, that was for sure. He wouldn’t have had to worry about any of it.

**xXx**

Voldemort rarely slumbered. Like food, his body did not require what a normal human did. He could go weeks, months even, without sustenance or sleep, but when he did allow himself to slip into unconsciousness, rarely did he dream and what a strange dream this was.

He stood in a land of white. It looked a great deal like the Arctic. Thick snow covered everything, blinding in the sunlight. It was a barren, empty landscape with not even a tree to break the monotony. A furious wind whipped, kicking up snow, but it did not bother Voldemort, his robes not even shifting. He did not notice the cold either, but he knew that if he did, it would be vicious. The sort of frigidness that peeled skin from bone.

It looked like the Arctic and yet it wasn’t. Voldemort did not quite understand how he was sure of this, but he was. This place was not on Earth. There was something unsettling about it. Something that he’d felt before, but could not place. And greater still, a tugging pulled at him. There was something here. Something that he knew. It was almost as if he’d lost something and only now remembered the fact. But what could he have possibly lost? Struggling to think of what it could be, he noticed a structure up ahead. It was obvious why his eyes had glossed over it initially. In the blizzard, it was nearly invisible, as it was made entirely of glass.

Voldemort moved toward it, his feet not leaving a mark in the snow. He stepped up before the building. It was a giant, glass dome. He placed his hand upon what looked like a handle-less door only for his fingers to slip straight through. Curiosity rising, Voldemort stepped forward and walked through the glass.

At once, the tugging intensified. What he sought was here. Stepping over a scattering of bones and weaving around strange, misshapen statues of hulking figures, Voldemort meandered through the dome. It put him in mind of a beehive, all circular passages and arched entryways. Everything was glass and a strange white metal. A heavy silence hung inside the place, as if the air itself held its breath. Voldemort watched the blizzard rage as he traveled down a see-through corridor. He met no one. Following that gentle tug, he moved onward, that whisper in the back of his mind urging him to turn right, continue straight, left now, and left again.

He entered what was clearly the hive’s heart, a cavernous room that was even larger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts. A monstrous tree took up the center, its branches reaching all the way to the ceiling. Voldemort had never seen the like. It looked diseased, the bark blackened and weeping a red liquid, the leaves brittle and gray. Ringing the circular room were arched entrances. All roads led here.

A creature suddenly darted across the room from one of the side corridors, diving around the giant tree’s trunk and out of sight. It moved so quickly, Voldemort did not get a good look.

Just as his interest in this peculiar place began to fade, the lower branches shifted and a figure dropped to the ground. He staggered upon the landing and what looked like small coconuts fell from a sack on his back. They hit the metal floor with sharp pings.

Though his back was to Voldemort, he knew who it was. He would recognize that mess of black hair anywhere.

_Potter._

**xXx**

Harry misjudged the distance from the ground and stumbled; some of the nuts from his sack tumbled out. Cursing, he stooped, gathering them back up. The headache that had welcomed him that morning throbbed worse than ever.

**_You._ **

Harry jerked in alarm from the accusatory voice that sounded clear as a bell inside his head. He spun around, the sack falling from his hand, more nuts rolling free. Had it finally happened? Had he finally gone insane and was now hearing voices?

The Tree Room was empty, but Harry still cleared his throat, daring to hope …

“Hello?”

He’d been alone for so long. Sixty-one days with no one. Harry kept count, scratching a line on the cave wall each morning; a tally that he still wasn’t sure was wise. He moved away from the tree, feeling suddenly that he was being watched.

“Is anyone here?”

A shimmer to the left caught his notice. It was very difficult to make out, but it had form. Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to see it more clearly, but it was impossible. He took another hesitant step forward, but the sound of claws scraping against metal made him whip around. A Hopper snatched up his sack of nuts in its jaws.

“Drop it!” Harry yelled, but the Hopper scampered, bounding away with the sack.

Bodiless voices. Strange shimmers. They vanished from his mind as Harry charged after the kangaroo rat. He barreled out of the room and down a hall. He turned a sharp corner.

And jerked to a stop so fast, his arms wind milled.

_Shit._

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

The Hopper had fled to the Bath. Stopping beside the sunken pool in the chamber’s center, its hairy snout rummaged inside the sack, crunching up the nuts Harry had spent the day painstakingly collecting. It was dangerous to climb that tree, the bark slick with seeping oil, the nuts attached so firmly to the branches it took ten minutes to pry each off and then another ten to break open their hard shells.

He could go back. There was still enough light left to gather a few.

Perhaps it was the terrible headache raging like a power drill between his temples. Perhaps it was the fear that he was finally slipping into madness. Perhaps it was just his hot-tempered, recklessness, but Harry gritted his teeth.

_Go slow. One step at a time. You can do this._

Harry had given everything in the Drift a name, not that it mattered as he was the only person on the entire godforsaken planet. He inched forward, taking great care not to brush against any of the statues dotting the room. Steam from the sunken hot spring swirled upward, fogging his glasses.

Why here? Why did they have to be in the Bath?

**xXx**

Voldemort was shell shocked. He was dreaming of Potter?

_Potter?_

At least the boy did not look well, far thinner than Voldemort had ever seen him, even more so than when he had faced him in the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort followed him as he ran from the room, down a looping side corridor, racing after that strange creature that looked like a miniature kangaroo. He found him in a room filled with steam. The chamber housed a large pool of water and ringing around it were more of the misshapen statues Voldemort had passed earlier. It was as if someone who had never seen a human before had been given the task to create one. Their limbs were disjointed and twisted, only three thick, sharp-nailed fingers to each hand, their jaws far too large for their heads.

Potter was slowly inching around them, weaving his way under and over their stretched out arms with the delicate precision of a burglar navigating trip wires.

“What are you doing?”

Like before, Potter’s head whipped around. His eyes darted about the room.

“Who said that?”

“I did. Can you not see me, boy?”

Potter’s eyes were huge.

“No,” he whispered. “Where are you?”

 _Was_ this a dream? Voldemort began to grow suspicious. Dreams were never so vivid in color or detail. In dreams the mind was never so conscious, so analytical. Voldemort could actually smell the air. His slit nostrils widened, noticing for the first time the tingle that teased the senses. It was the same as the magic that had hummed in the Great Hall moments after Potter disappeared.

What if this was not a dream? What if this was real?

“To your left,” Voldemort replied, watching as Potter’s eyes searched and finally landed upon him. No recollection crossed Potter’s face. Voldemort was invisible to him. A smile spread across his lip-less mouth. _How delicious._

“Look,” said Potter tensely. “I’d love to chat, but this isn’t the best time.”

Voldemort drew his wand and rolled it between his fingers. Now that he was more aware of it, the hum in the air was like the buzz of a bee. _He had found him_ , after months of searching. How he had managed to astral project to the boy was a mystery he would contemplate later. For now —

Voldemort pointed his wand at the boy. A single curse and the blight known as Harry Potter would plague him no more.

_“He survived the Killing curse. Twice.”_

_“Not even the Dark Lord’s done that.”_

As the boy stared at his midriff, Voldemort gritted his teeth. It did him no good to kill Potter without witnesses, just as he knew it would do him no good to simply dump his dead body at his followers’ feet. As repugnant, as insulting as it was, Harry Potter had planted doubts and Voldemort needed to burn them to the ground.

He put his wand away.

“And why is now not a good time?” he asked, referring to the boy’s earlier statement.

“Because these statues aren’t statues,” Potter said. He had not moved an inch since they’d begun talking, still in the midst of swirling steam and sculptures. “They’re only sleeping and if you touch one —”

Potter cut off. A second later, Voldemort understood why. One of those round nuts rolled out of the bag the rat had stolen. It leapt after it. Its tail brushed against a statue’s foot.

The statue moved faster than the blink of an eye, pouncing upon the rat, stabbing it with a taloned hand. The animal shrieked. A hind leg was pinned to the floor; the statue’s sharp, stubby fingers nailed it in place. Blood oozed.

The statue was frozen again, immobile and crouched, staring with unblinking eyes at the struggling, squealing rat.

Amazed, Voldemort moved to the right to get a better look.

“Whatever you do, don’t touch a statue!” Potter ordered, looking ill. The boy cast the rat a sympathetic look before carefully kneeling down and scooping up his bag. Seeming to hold his breath, he carefully made his way back through the maze of limbs.

“What are they?” Voldemort asked, studying the statues with fascination.

Potter sucked in his stomach as he slipped past the final one. The moment he was free of them, he released a shaky breath.

“I don’t know what they are. I call them Heart Eaters,” he explained. “That’s what they do if they get hold of you.” The boy turned to him and asked bluntly, “Are you human?”

“Of course I’m human,” said Voldemort.

Delight spread over Potter’s face. “Are you a wizard? Can you make yourself visible — this would be a lot easier if you were.”

“No.”

Potter’s grin faltered. “No, you’re not a wizard or no, you can’t be visible?”

“My body is not present. Only my spirit is.” And as he said this, Voldemort wondered if he could in fact perform magic whilst in this form.

Potter’s smile vanished completely.

“Oh. That’s …”

“Astral projection.”

“Right.” Potter nodded, seeming to be finding this news difficult to process. “So you’re … not really here.”

“That is what I said.” How had he been bested by this imbecile?

“I guess that means you don’t need to worry about your heart getting eaten. Lucky you,” said Potter, attempting humor, but too much bitterness seeped through. “I’m Harry.”

“I know who you are.”

Potter stared at Voldemort — or more accurately — stared at Voldemort’s chest, and then he was closing the distance between them, his eyes suddenly feverish.

“You really are a wizard? The war? What happened?”

Voldemort studied the wide-eyed boy, thinking quickly. Could he Apparate without a body? Could his spirit even touch Potter? Could he bring him back with him?

He needed Potter at Hogwarts. He needed his blood spilled all over the Great Hall. He reached out his hand and grasped the boy’s shoulder. The fingers that had slipped through the door took form against him; his shoulder was warm and solid. Potter flinched at the touch, not expecting it. With a grin of victory, Voldemort squeezed, his long, thin fingers digging in. He pulled forth the magic to send them both away —

Voldemort felt the tug of Apparition, but nothing happened. The spell nullified and dissipated in the air. Grimacing, he let his hand fall. This was going to be trickier than he’d thought.

The boy was staring at where Voldemort had gripped his shoulder, as if transfixed.

“The war is over.”

Potter’s eyes darted back to him. “Voldemort?”

Voldemort hesitated for a half second before making his decision.

“The Dark Lord is gone.”

Potter took a staggered step back. And then a smile unlike any other spread wide over the boy’s face. The exultant joy made Voldemort’s stomach turn. Fearing he might change his mind and murder him after all, he asked, “Where are we?”

“I call it the Drift,” said Potter, his delight at the news of his enemy’s downfall turning him giddy and short of breath. “I don’t actually know _where_ we are, though I’m pretty sure it’s on a different planet. This dome. It’s a spaceship.”

Had Potter gone insane?

Potter’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You don’t believe me. I’ll show you!” And with far too much enthusiasm, he raced down the corridor, pausing only long enough to urge Voldemort on with an energetic, “Follow me!”

**xXx**

A part of Harry still hadn’t written off losing his mind as a possible reason for this unexpected development, but the hand that had gripped his shoulder, squeezing it with reassurance … that _had_ to have been real. So what if it didn’t make sense. Ghosts and spirits and phantoms could not _touch,_ not like that, but Harry didn’t care. It had been a _hand_. A _human_ hand with fingers and a thumb. There was a person — a wizard — with him. After two months, he wasn’t alone.

Leading his companion down a different glass corridor, Harry shot another glance over his shoulder, reassuring himself that he was still following. For the first time he fully appreciated how it must have driven Ron and Hermione mad when he’d hidden under the Cloak.

He couldn’t see the man, not really, his form nothing more than a faint shimmer that shifted as he moved. It was the only way Harry could think to describe it: a slight disturbance in the air, like heat rays rising off hot pavement in the summer. Even the stranger’s voice was odd, bypassing Harry’s ears and sounding in his mind, full and vibrant, deep as a cello. It reminded Harry of someone he’d heard before, but couldn’t place.

“Down here,” said Harry, turning right and rushing down a set of stairs.

The war was over. Voldemort was gone. It had all been worth it, after all. If Harry still possessed a wand, he would have created the most powerful Patronus known to man.

“See,” said Harry, entering the control room and waving his arm with a flourish. “Spaceship. The ten year-old me would have died.”

The wizard entered after him, looking around. Or at least, Harry _imagined_ he looked around, taking in the strange knobs and colored panels. It was difficult to explain, but he felt that he sensed the stranger’s feelings almost as he had with Voldemort. Waves of dubiousness radiated from the shimmering figure.

**It is a peculiar place, I give you that, but why assume it is a —**

Harry picked up the space helmet that rested on the ground, its glass visor cracked. Harry couldn’t keep the smirk from his face. “Spaceship.”

 **So it is,** the wizard admitted.

“Unfortunately, it’s broken,” said Harry, putting the helmet back. “I’ve pushed everything in here and nothing happens. You don’t happen to know how to fix a spaceship?”

**No.**

“Can’t blame a guy for asking,” Harry sighed.

He knew it was most likely due to his long stretch of isolation, but Harry felt an unshakable connection with this stranger. The wizard felt familiar in ways that were impossible, as if he’d always known him. As if he’d stumbled upon a long lost friend.

“So what’s your name?” Harry asked.

**Guess.**

Harry blinked. “Guess? Your name?”

Amusement that wasn’t Harry’s tickled inside him.

**Yes.**

“How am I supposed to do that?”

**You can have as many tries as you like.**

“Thanks,” said Harry dryly, half wondering if he’d actually been joined by Fred’s ghost. “I’ll work on that, but we should be getting on. I’ve got a cave. There’s enough room in there for both of us.”

**A cave?**

“Yeah,” said Harry. “We can’t stay here in the Dome –”

**Dome?**

“That’s what I call the ship. We can’t stay here at night because that’s when the Heart Eaters — those statues — move about and believe me, you don’t want to be wandering around in the dark with those things on the loose.”

 **But I am not here** , said the wizard.

“Yeah, but still —”

**No, Harry. I am not here. I am currently asleep in my chambers. My spirit has projected itself to this place.**

“But I can touch you,” Harry argued. “I can touch you, which means you must be here.” The words left him in a rush and only when they were out in the open did it dawn on him how badly he needed this to be true. It was horrible to wish for someone else to be trapped in this wasteland — _no one_ should be trapped here — but Harry _needed_ it.

**It is a peculiarity that I will investigate, but the fact remains that I am little more than a phantom. When I wake, so too shall I leave.**

Harry felt as if a hand had reached inside his chest and scooped out his insides.

“Oh.”

**But I have not woken yet.**

And just like that, Harry felt himself inflate, filling with light and warmth. Without warning, tears pricked his eyes. He blinked them quickly away.

Grinning, he said, “The cave’s outside. There’s a blizzard going on. You sure you won’t be bothered —”

**I will not. Lead the way.**

**xXx**

“Are you the only one present?” Voldemort asked as Potter led him back through the Dome’s intricate corridors. Each looked exactly the same. He was impressed by how deftly the boy navigated through it, returning them back to the Dome’s entrance.

“Yeah.”

“But the bones …”

“They’re mainly Hoppers,” said Potter, picking up a heavy winter coat from the floor that Voldemort had not noticed when he’d entered. “They’re all over the place but they mostly live in the ventilation shafts. I think other people have ended up here before me, though. Some bones are bigger. Some skeletons don’t look remotely human. I found something that looked like a dolphin’s skull but five times too big. This coat, for instance, I found in the cave.”

The coat was too large for him, nearly swallowing him up. It could have belonged to Hagrid. He looked even younger than seventeen as he buttoned it all the way up to his chin and flipped up the hood. As if he was bracing himself, Potter opened the door and though the wind barreled inside, shooting snow ten feet into the hall, melting instantly on the white-metal floor, Voldemort felt nothing. Potter however lowered his head against the gale and plowed forward. Walking sedately beside him, Voldemort watched the boy struggle, his feet sinking deep in the snow.

They crossed a barren field, frozen and flat. The sinking sun threw Potter’s shadow long and thin. Voldemort’s shadow was nonexistent. As they continued onward, seemingly toward nothing, Voldemort began to wonder if the boy actually knew where he was going when, without warning, Potter stopped.

“Here!” he shouted over the furious wind.

Potter dropped to his knees and scraped snow from a large, flat rock. He pushed it aside, revealing a hole wide enough for a grown man. He dropped down inside it and Voldemort followed, drifting downward with the delicateness of a feather.

“Give me a minute,” Potter mumbled in the dark.

Voldemort’s eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, his sight as well suited to the dark as a cat’s. He watched Potter shuffle about the cave, and a moment later, light bloomed into life. Lanterns rested on rocks and outcroppings in the walls. Soon, the cave was illuminated enough to easily see.

“Your wand?” though Voldemort already knew the answer.

“Don’t have it,” said Potter. “I must have dropped it when I got blasted here.”

Yes, he had. The first to reach the sizzling crater, Voldemort had scooped it up. He’d toyed with snapping it in half, but instead, had locked it away in his quarters. It was not the holly that shared a core with his own, but a hawthorn. It had puzzled Voldemort. What could have happened to have caused Potter to exchange his with one that was clearly inferior? Then again, wands were temperamental. He himself had dispensed with using the Elder Wand, returning to his old and trusted Yew, when he was unable to wield it to his satisfaction.

Potter walked back to the cave’s entrance. Standing on a boulder, he reached upward and worked the flat stone back over the hole. At once, the raging wind dwindled down to a whistle.

“It’s not much,” said Potter, “but the Heart Eaters haven’t found it yet.” He sat cross-legged on the stone ground, pulling the sack off his back but keeping the coat on. Mist rose from his mouth. Opening the flap, he pulled out one of the round nuts, picked up a sharp rock and began to dig it into a grove in its shell.

“Why can the Heart Eaters only move freely at night?”

“I don’t know.” Grimacing, Potter pushed and twisted the rock’s point deeper into the grove. “The sunlight keeps them frozen. Or asleep. I’m not really sure which. But the fact is that even if you touch one, if the sun’s on it, it’ll freeze again.”

“Rather fortunate that the Dome is made of glass,” said Voldemort.

Potter smiled at him with ill-humor.

“And you have been here all this time?” Voldemort’s eyes traveled over the cave. Potter might have thought otherwise, but the space was tiny, barely enough room for two grown men to share comfortably. Along one stone wall were scratches. Voldemort moved toward it. His spirit must have created some disturbance in the air for Potter’s eyes looked up and followed him as he stepped up to the stretch of wall. Lines and slashes. Days counted.

“Yeah,” said Potter quietly. He dug more insistently into his nut. “Can you help me get back?” he asked abruptly.

Voldemort turned from the wall, taking Potter in. “There is no such spell that allows one to jump from planet to planet.”

“But a spell got me here. A spell got you here.”

“Both of which I would have said were impossible until now,” Voldemort stated.

“It happened during the battle,” said Potter. “Spells were going everywhere.”

“Which must have caused an unexpected reaction,” Voldemort agreed. “A rift or wormhole, so to speak. Repeating such a feat will be impossible.”

The giant coat Potter wore swallowed him up even more. He seemed to shrink in upon himself.

“However,” Voldemort continued, “magic sent you here and therefore magic, in theory, should return you.”

Behind his glasses, Potter’s eyes brightened. “You think so? You think you can figure something out?”

“It will take time.”

Potter’s thin throat constricted as he swallowed. He nodded quickly.

“I understand. But you’ll … you’ll try?”

“Oh, yes, Harry,” said Voldemort softly. “In that regard, I will do my utmost.”

A sudden distant shriek had Voldemort looking upward.

“What was that?”

“The Heart Eaters,” Potter breathed. “They’re awake.”

Voldemort strode to stand beneath the entrance, listening. There was nothing human in those sounds. Voldemort had heard all manner of screams and howls, but these … these voices were shredded. They were hunger and blood and madness. He wanted to see them.

Potter scrambled to his feet. “Don’t —”

But Voldemort had already ascended, floating upward through the flat stone and into blue light cast by twin moons. For limbs that were grotesquely arraigned, the Heart Eaters moved surprisingly quick. There had been at least a dozen statues in the chamber with the sunken pool. Along with the ones he and Potter had passed in the corridors, Voldemort estimated there were possibly twenty in all. He crossed the frozen land to the Dome and spotted them through the glass, running with the intensity of a wolf pack on the scent of a rabbit. The Dome’s door burst open but they did not leave its shelter. They shrieked as the cold hit them and scurried back. They seemed incapable of holding still and, unable to run out into the freezing temperature, they instead ran through the Dome. Voldemort stepped through the glass exterior, entering the ship. In the moonlight, the gray of their skin turned them blue, save for one whose front was painted with fresh blood — the Heart Eater who’d snagged the Hopper. They darted past him, not noticing him, not sensing his heart as his heart was light years away.

They hunted someone else’s beating, pulsating organ.

They sought Potter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this to TitleAmbiguity, but I want to say it to all of you: My cheeks hurt for two days straight from smiling so much. Y’all blew me away. I was not expecting so much love and excitement. Thank you!
> 
> On the subject of Sci-Fi: I was a wee bit worried that it wouldn’t be welcomed, but it has been welcomed with banners and trumpets and now I’m worried I’ve set your expectations too high! XD Therefore, I want to go ahead and say that the Sci-Fi elements will be more on the fantastical side of things rather than the science-y side of things. We are still dealing with magic and wizards and so the problem faced with getting Harry back home will remain magical, as you will see in this chapter.
> 
> One more thing, and then I’ll let you go: I like to be minimal with tags, but if you think of ones that would be helpful or important to readers, feel free to tell me.

Planets rotated around him. The Space Chamber in the Department of Mysteries was perhaps the most peaceful and the most overwhelming. How easy to feel small and insignificant surrounded by the endlessness of space and the mysteries it held. But on the other hand … to stand among them … to view them from on high, to watch them spin and dance around him like he was their god …

“They are here, my Lord,” Rookwood announced quietly.

Voldemort turned as a small cluster of Unspeakables entered the chamber.

“Welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have a task for you.”

**xXx**

Harry’s mornings were always the same. Rise from the frozen floor with a crick in his neck, eat a sad breakfast of chalky nuts, scratch another line into the wall, take his stick and waggle it about in the small air hole, clearing it of accumulated snow, and leaving it there, poking up out of the ground as a guide to find his way back, clamber up onto the stepping stone, work the heavy, flat rock off the entrance and set off across the Drift to the Dome.

Except this time Harry stayed buried under his thick coat longer than usual, curled up so tight against the freezing cold of the cave that he could have been a contortionist.

_It wasn’t real. You imagined it. You imagined a wizard promising to take you home._

Harry pulled the coat off his head and peered around the cave. His heart sank like a bolder in a pond.

 _See._ _No one’s here. No one ever was._

It was much harder to get up off the floor after that, but eventually the cold became too severe. Wrapped up in the coat, he picked up the rock he used to break open the half-dozen nuts he’d collected and made another scratch in the wall.

Sixty-two.

He paused and then cut an X over the line before it.

 _Here marks the spot_ , he thought savagely. _Here marks the day you nearly lost your mind._

How had Sirius done it? How had he survived Azkaban for _twelve years_? Harry had thought he’d understood what a feat that must have been, but he’d known _nothing_.

If Sirius had kept hold of his sanity for so long in a prison full of dementors, Harry could conquer this place.

After the trudging walk to the Dome, he set about his day like it was any other, refusing to let the memory of the stranger from yesterday distract him. He went to the Bath and collected the dead Hopper. As expected, its chest was ripped open, its heart missing.

Poor blighter.

But there was nothing Harry could have done. He’d tried to help a Hopper once before and had nearly been pinned by a Heart Eater in the process. The Hoppers never seemed remotely concerned that one of their number fell prey to a Heart Eater, all scurrying out of the vents and bounding around the Dome, climbing the Black Tree for nuts, going about their day with the same clockwork precision that Harry did.

He put the dead Hopper in the Fire Chamber beside the pit. Someone before him had made it, forming it out of savaged metal and stone. Harry didn’t know whether it was the pilot who’d done so, along with removing a few of the glass panels from the ceiling to vent the smoke out, or whether it had been someone else. Someone like him. Someone who’d appeared here without warning. Harry liked to think that was the case. He enjoyed imagining that the person who’d fixed up the fire pit had been the same to leave behind the coat. It was probably due to the size of it, but Harry pictured the coat’s previous owner as Hagrid — burly, hairy, with kind, beetle-black eyes. He hoped whoever it was had succeeded in escaping this place.

Harry returned to the Black Tree, collecting twigs and leaves. He was careful to only snap off dead branches, not wanting to risk harming one of his only food sources.

Back down the winding corridors, he added fuel to the pit, rustling up the coals that had burned down in the night. He kept the pit burning throughout the day, not just because he was desperate for warmth, but that starting fires with the strike of stone on stone took hours. Soon, the leaves and twigs ignited, helped by the flammable red oil in the bark, and Harry sat before it, feeling his muscles finally unknit, blessed warmth spreading over his frozen face.

He was so tired. He was so, so tired.

A full night’s sleep was a luxury Harry had not had in two months, the frozen cave and shrieking Heart Eaters made that impossible. The heat from the fire was like a lullaby and soon, his head began to droop.

Harry jerked himself awake. He couldn’t fall asleep in the Dome. It was too dangerous. This planet’s rotation was different from Earth’s, off kilter and disjointed. Harry had tried to make sense of it, but to no avail. Each day was new, the sun moving across the sky at a different clip than the one before it, sometimes dragging on for so long it felt like two days crammed into one, other days shooting across the sky so fast that Harry raced from job to job, barely managing to reach his cave before the sun sank into the horizon.

He should make better use of the long days. He should spend the bonus time collecting extra nuts in case he fell again and hurt himself so badly he couldn’t climb its branches. He should make more wicks from bits of clothing left behind by the ship’s crew or previous marooned victims. He should prowl the corridors for Hoppers. He should. He should. He should. But did he? No. Instead, the lethargy always won and he would settle before the fire or float in the hot spring in a daze, and before he’d know it, the shadows had elongated, the sun had lowered. Another day over. Another mark in the wall. Another plodding, aching step forward.

If he could only get rid of the Heart Eaters, living here would be almost bearable, but that would never happen. Touching them was suicide. Venturing into the Dome after dark was a death wish. He had found a system that worked. Not the most pleasant, but one that kept him alive.

But alive for what?

Who was he waiting for?

Grimacing against his own thoughts, Harry fished out his trusted rock from his sack, sharpened to a razor-like point. He pulled the dead Hopper close. Thirty minutes later, Harry set strips of meat onto a flat stone nestled in glowing coals. They sizzled on the hot rock, their edges caramelizing and curling. Shame Hopper didn’t taste good, more like rubber boots with much the same texture.

**Did you catch that yourself?**

Harry froze.

“No,” he replied, not moving, but his eyes shifted from side to side. He didn’t see the same shimmer from before. He must be behind him. “It was the one from yesterday.”

**Oh, yes. The statue. I noticed there aren’t as many around the pool today.**

“You really shouldn’t have gone out there,” Harry berated the voice, sounding like a parent whose child always refused to hold their hand while crossing the street.

 **Would you have tried to save me?** The voice sounded amused. **I was perfectly safe. They didn’t notice me.**

This didn’t make Harry feel better. If anything, he felt overwhelmingly angry.

**And how are you, Harry?**

_How am I?_ What sort of question was that?

**Harry?**

“Are you real?” Harry asked. The fire was hot against his face, but his back was cold. All the time, he was cold. Even when he swam in the hot spring, the cold stayed in his chest. Every day, every morning, every night, the cold sunk a little deeper, slowing his mind, turning his blood to sludge, making him so lethargic that he was content to sit and stare at nothing and think of nothing for hours at a time. The cold numbed him, reminding him in soft croons how _hard_ it was to keep going.

_Give up. You’ve done enough. Isn’t it time to rest? To fall asleep and never wake up?_

And after all his fighting, here he was, talking to someone that Harry was almost a hundred percent sure was no one at all.

“Are you real?” Harry repeated.

**Does it matter?**

Harry swallowed. _Did_ it? Was it such a bad thing to go insane? As long as he stayed lucid enough to remember his chores, to remember the importance of the sunlight, to always find his way back to the cave …

“I’d like it to,” he answered.

The shimmer moved into sight, stepping beside him by the pit.

**I assure you, I am very real. But I see how that is difficult to prove. Believing in me relies entirely on you, Harry.**

“And if this is all in my head?” Harry asked, searching the shimmer for some glimmer of a face, but there was none.

**Then so be it, and no harm done.**

_Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?_

Slowly, a smile formed, the sensation awkward, a movement half forgotten by the muscles of his face.

“Right,” Harry said, and in an instant he was suddenly, vibrantly cheerful. He still hadn’t made up his mind about the reality of any of this, but that was the thing — he _couldn’t._ He _couldn’t_ be sure whether the voice that rang crystal clear in his mind was real, but he could decide that it was. “You hungry?”

**I am not —**

“Here, yeah. Just figured I’d offer.” He flipped the meat over with a flick of his twig. “Where are you from?”

 **London** , said the stranger after a pause.

“You still live there?”

**No. Not in some time.**

“Did you like it there? Where do you live now? What do you do? Did you go to Hogwarts? What’s your —” He was about to say ‘Quidditch team’ when his ears caught up with his mouth. He snapped his jaw shut. Humor was once again seeping out from the stranger. It was odd and slightly disturbing that he could feel the man’s emotions in just the same manner he used to feel Voldemort’s.

“Sorry,” Harry amended, his face growing hotter, and not because of the fire. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in a long time.”

**I am an explorer.**

“Really? You must be over the moon to have landed here,” said Harry dryly.

 **I am taking copious notes,** the voice agreed.

Harry laughed. “The Quibbler might be the only paper that’ll print anything on this place. What do you explore?”

**Magic. I study its secrets; I press its boundaries. Another reason finding myself in this unexpected predicament is highly intriguing.**

Some of the lightness inside Harry dimmed. It might be interesting to the stranger. It wasn’t to Harry. But Harry didn’t want to feel depressed anymore. He didn’t want to ruin a second on unpleasant thoughts. While this stranger was here, he wanted to forget about the Drift.

“So when you say you explore magic … you mean you’re a philosopher? Like Nicolas Flamel?”

**I suppose you could compare us. We’ve had … similar interests.**

“You travel?”

 **A great deal, yes. Would you like me to tell you of my travels?** the stranger asked.

“That would be wonderful.”

The stranger sat before the fire pit, or Harry assumed he did. The shimmer shifted and condensed. The man’s voice once again filled his head, telling him about a time he’d been trapped inside an Egyptian tomb with a murderous mummy.

**xXx**

This was far too easy.

The boy who had defied his Imperius Curse with the skill of a master at the mere age of fourteen was as malleable as wet clay. Voldemort watched as Potter hung to his every word. The story he shared was true. When he left Borgin and Burkes, he had sunk deep into the magical world, swallowing up all the mysteries and knowledge he could of the Dark Arts. True, being cornered in a cursed tomb with a bloodthirsty mummy had not been his most winning of moments, but he wanted Potter to trust him and he was sitting at a campfire and wasn’t that what people did around campfires? Tell stories?

“Your meat’s burning,” Voldemort told him.

Potter’s attention jerked back to his rock and, cursing, he scooped the meat off the stone. As Voldemort watched Potter salvage his meal, he turned his focus inward, upon the body he’d left behind in his chamber. The more he focused, the clearer the link became. He felt himself lying on his bed, asleep, aided by a sleeping draft. He felt the weight of his bones sinking into the mattress. Even with the potion, his body fought it, the slumber unneeded and unwanted. He would not be able to visit Potter on such a regular basis, not unless he brewed a concoction strong enough to withstand his insomnia.

“You said you were going to try to find a way to get me out of here,” said Potter.

Voldemort dragged himself back to the present. Back to Potter. “Yes.”

“How long do you think —”

“I do not know. As I told you before, it will take time.”

Potter scowled. The boy was impatient. Voldemort understood the feeling all too well. He too was impatient. He too longed to squash Potter under his heel.

How _had_ he survived the second Killing Curse? Voldemort understood why the spell had failed the first time, but the _second_? What magic did Potter possess that made him impervious? The curse had _worked_. Voldemort had spent hours replaying the memory, going so far as to dive into Dumbledore’s Pensieve. The curse had _worked_ and yet …

Perhaps he should postpone killing him. Perhaps Potter would be better suited as a study specimen, tested and prodded until he finally understood what made Potter more immune to the Killing Curse than he was.

Voldemort felt his mood darken and that was dangerous. The boy could not see him, but Voldemort suspected that they shared a link, one that allowed the boy glimpses of emotion, just as Voldemort could sense where Potter was within the Dome.

Therefore, he scooped up all thoughts of immortality and tucked them safely away in a sealed chest in his mind, smoothed over his own frustrations, and said calmly, “Do not fret. I will take care of everything.”

“Why?” Potter blurted, staring at him with such intensity Voldemort wondered if Potter could suddenly see him. “Why are you helping me?”

_So that I may kill you, of course._

Instead, Voldemort answered, “Because you do not belong here, Harry.”

Potter swallowed. From far away, Voldemort felt his left finger twitch. His eyelids flickered. He could not stay much longer.

“Badgering me will do little good —”

Potter looked wounded. “I wasn’t badgering —”

“I will keep you informed of progress, but pestering me —”

“I didn’t mean —”

The boy’s knitted brows and conflicted face vanished from sight as Voldemort’s body won the battle. He let himself fall backward, back into himself, across the vast distance of stars and galaxies, away from Potter and the place he called the Drift.

**xXx**

The Phantom came, sometimes after long sweeping breaks, but he always came. Harry hated every second when he was gone. Hope that the man would suddenly appear caused him to linger about the Dome longer than was safe, the sun nearly vanishing under the horizon before he gave up and bolted across the snowy landscape, battered by the constantly raging wind, to his underground sanctuary. Whenever something winked in the corner of his eye, his heart leapt, but it was only sunlight bouncing off the glass walls …

Unpredictable as he was, the Phantom came. When he did, Harry bit his tongue, tamping down the urge to barrage him with questions (Where have you been? What have you been doing? It’s been _five_ days!), though he wanted to. Desperately. But worse than that — far, far worse than that — were the long hours when Harry was alone with only his thoughts to keep him company, his brain concocting plans of how to get the Phantom to be just as trapped in the Drift as he was … to have him never disappear.

_Don’t go. Don’t go. This time, please, don’t go._

If the man knew the things Harry wished for …

The Phantom never mentioned friends or family or partners, romantic or otherwise.

_It’s not like you’ll be missed._

Harry was sickened with himself. _No one_ (save for Voldemort) deserved to be in the Drift and the one person who had miraculously managed to find him and repeat the process did not deserve these thoughts. The man could be married. He could have children and just preferred to keep them private. Hell, he might just be making up all those stories of tombs and jungles and sea voyages. It would be fitting that they were lies, what with the Phantom’s penchant for games. Who did that, anyway? Who told a person to guess their name? What sort of person would think, hey, we’ve all thought you’ve been dead and I’m going to try to figure out a way to bring you back, but in the meantime, I know just the thing to help pass the time!

Seriously. What kind of a person did that?

Harry didn’t know. He didn’t _want_ to know. He didn’t mind what games the Phantom played as long as he came. As long as he stayed. As long as he just kept talking, because when the Phantom left, his absence was soul-crushing.

Harry pictured Ron wince. _Bit dramatic, mate._

It _was_ dramatic, but it was the only word Harry could think to describe the sinking in his stomach when the Phantom announced his departure with the casualness of someone saying they forgot to pick up eggs and would pop down to the corner store, back in a bit. It didn’t make any sense that just after six visits Harry would actually feel sick to his stomach with the Phantom’s unavoidable words of “I must go now.”

But the fact of the matter was that when the Phantom came, Harry felt _alive_. More alive than he had in ages. Time spent with the Phantom made him warmer than the fire or hot spring ever did. The man was a stranger in every regard and yet Harry felt a connection so strong that it defied logic. More than a friend. More than a brother. More even than a soulmate.

Now he really was being dramatic.

“Atticus? Jack? Jasper?”

**You are a terrible guesser.**

“Well give me a hint,” said Harry with an exasperated laugh. God, he’d missed laughing. There was never anything to laugh about in the Drift. “The entire alphabet is a bit much.”

The Phantom considered his request.

**V.**

Harry blinked. “Victor? Vance? It’s not Vernon, is it?”

**No.**

“Good,” said Harry, relieved. “Does it start with a v or does it have a v in it?”

The Phantom smirked. Or, the swell in Harry’s chest _felt_ like a smirk.

**You only get one clue.**

“How is that fair?”

 **I’m not fair,** he replied, and Harry was positive the Phantom was smirking now.

Maybe the Phantom was insane. Talk about kismet. Out of the entire universe, who should join him, but someone who was round the bend. But that only made Harry feel more connected. Like rats on a sinking ship, like cellmates in a prison, Harry imagined the two of them banding together, thick as thieves, even though that was far from the truth. You couldn’t be a sinking rat if you could hop on and off the boat at your leisure. You weren’t a cellmate if the warden let you stroll out whenever you fancied. The Phantom was not trapped as Harry was.

Harry checked that the hollowed out nut shell he’d placed at the base of the Black Tree to collect the slow trickle of oil was not in threat of overflowing.

“Okay,” said Harry. “How about Xavier? Calvin?”

The Phantom snorted.

“Fine!” said Harry. “I give up! It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve already given you a name.”

 **You have?** Curiosity was like a finger trailing along his shoulder blade, though the Phantom had not moved from his spot against the wall. **And what have you decided to call me, Harry?**

The shell was full enough. Any more and Harry might risk it spilling. He set it aside, looked over his shoulder at the Phantom’s hazy shimmer and said, “Guess.”

**xXx**

The Great Hall was spotless. All signs of the battle that had raged in May were gone, save for that lingering hum in the air that was not quite _right_ , that same light buzz that tickled his skin while in the Drift. Voldemort’s eyes shifted past his semi-circle of Death Eaters to the spot where Potter had vanished two months ago. The crater was no more, but he could locate it as easily and readily as if it remained.

A half-smile tugged at his lips, remembering their last encounter.

 _“Guess._ ”

Voldemort had not known the boy possessed a wry sense of humor, but then again, they had never spent much time conversing. For being prophesied enemies, Voldemort was forced to admit that he knew very little about Harry Potter. He knew what was important — his magical skill, his unnerving ability to wriggle free from danger — but beyond that Potter was a stranger and that seemed wrong. Voldemort didn’t understand the compulsion to entertain the boy with his past escapades. He’d never felt a desire to do such a thing before, save for Nagini. She had known his past, his secrets, his desires.

Was that why? Had he grown fond of having a companion and now that she was gone — dead by the hand of that repugnant Longbottom boy — he found himself searching for another?

He scoffed at the idea. He did not want Potter as a confidant. He wanted him dead.

And most unfortunately, that would take time. The Portkey would take months to create. What harm would it do if, in the meantime, he learned more about Harry? And wouldn’t it be all the more delicious to see the boy’s horrified face when he realized that the man whom he’d thought was his savor and friend was really his executioner? Voldemort liked that idea.

He wondered how the boy was getting on. It was over a week since he’d last traveled into the Drift. It was time to pay another visit.

Being July, Hogwarts was void of students; the house tables had been removed save for the long staff table at the head of the hall and a single one for the Death Eaters stationed at Hogwarts to take their meals. Voldemort had made numerous alterations to the decor. Instead of the Hogwarts insignia, a large banner of Slytherin House hung behind the teachers’ table. Two enormous basilisk statues flanked the double doors, the jewels in their eye sockets sparkling so bright they could have been real.

Voldemort’s gaze traveled back over his circle of Death Eaters. None met his eye. A tremor shuddered through their ranks. Voldemort let the tension hover in the air before turning his focus to one individual in particular.

“Lucius.”

Trembling, Lucius stepped forward. “My Lord,” he murmured, lowering to one knee. Behind him, Draco was as white as bone, his eyes fixed upon his shoes.

“I cannot help but notice that another day has passed and still you have not brought me Neville Longbottom. Why?”

A bead of sweat slipped down Lucius’ face. “The Order is protecting —”

A flash of red light and Lucius flailed upon the ground, his voice a cacophony in the hall. Draco flinched and shut his eyes.

Voldemort lifted the curse.

“Of course they are protecting him, Lucius,” he replied. “It is what they _do_.”

“M-m-my Lord —” Lucius gasped, shaking worse than ever. “Please — I-I will bring him — to you. I swear it.”

“You swear it?” Voldemort loomed over him. “You swear it as you swore loyalty to me all those years ago? As you swore to retrieve the Prophecy? Pain does not seem to be enough of a motivator for you, Lucius. What do I need to do to make you try harder? Shall I send Draco to Azkaban, where he can join your traitorous wife?”

Terror-stricken, Lucius threw himself at Voldemort’s feet.

“My Lord, I beg you, spare Draco! I will bring you Longbottom! I will!”

“Empty promises, Lucius,” Voldemort hissed. “I grow tired of them.”

Lucius mouthed silently, clutching Voldemort’s robes. He turned on his knees to Bella, pleading her silently for support, but Bella’s gaze was merciless. Not a single Death Eater came to Lucius’ aid. They knew better.

“I will give you to the end of the month.” At Voldemort’s words, Lucius’ face jerked back upward, focusing upon him. “But if you still have not brought me Longbottom in that time, you will wish I had never removed you from Azkaban.”

Eyes wide, Lucius nodded.

“Yes, my Lord,” he gasped. “Thank you, my Lord.”

Behind the line of Death Eaters, Fenrir Greyback entered the hall, his heavy footsteps making them turn.

“My Lord,” said the werewolf, “a man is seeking your audience. He says he’s brought you Minerva McGonagall.”

At the announcement, the Death Eaters murmured to each other with interest. Alecto Carrow let out a squeal of delight. With the focus shifted, Lucius rose shakily to his feet, Draco helping him.

“By all means,” said Voldemort, who did not quite believe that McGonagall had finally been apprehended. “Show him in.”

Greyback retreated and soon returned with a wizard. A witch with her face covered by a black sack floated behind him, her feet skimming the ground. The Death Eaters stepped back, allowing the pair to travel through their ranks. The wizard — youthful and blond, dressed in expensive plum robes with a gleaming golden emblem in the shape of a triangular eye hanging round his neck — dropped to one knee.

“My Lord,” he murmured, “it is an honor to be in your presence.”

“And you are?” Voldemort asked.

“Alexander Mathis,” said the wizard. “I have brought you a gift.” He rose and pulled off the sack from the witch’s head.

A ripple of excitement and envy raced through the circle as McGonagall was revealed — unconscious, her chin drooped against her chest, her usual severe bun undone.

“And why have you brought Lord Voldemort such a gift?” Voldemort asked. He eyed the emblem dangling around Mathis’ neck. “You do realize I killed Grindelwald.”

“I am an admirer of all wizards who achieve greatness,” Mathis replied. “It is my hope that I myself may learn from you.”

“You wish to join my ranks?”

“I wish to serve you, my Lord, in any way I can.”

There was something about Mathis that grated Voldemort. Perhaps it was his confidence — the audacious flaunting of another Dark Lord’s mark in the presence of another. But confidence and audacity were not unwanted qualities. They were, in fact, qualities he himself possessed in droves. Voldemort’s eyes traveled over McGonagall. There was no denying that his Death Eaters had not brought him a prime Order member in a long while.

“You have my gratitude,” he said, addressing Mathis. “She has been a slippery one to capture.”

Mathis smiled.

“She put up a fight.” He pushed up his left sleeve. A half-healed gash was there, running up the length of his forearm.

“You shall see my Healers. Bella, show our guest to the Hospital Wing. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish. You will be most aptly rewarded for this capture.”

“You are too generous, my Lord,” said Mathis with another bow. “Thank you.”

He left, following Bella out of the Great Hall. With a lazy flick of Voldemort’s fingers, so too did his Death Eaters follow suit, the meeting adjourned. Voldemort pointed his wand at McGonagall. She began to stir. Her eyes opened. For half a second, befuddlement clouded her gaze and then her awareness sharpened. Though she still floated with her limbs frozen in a body-bind, she glowered at Voldemort with blistering hatred.

“Minerva,” Voldemort greeted with the lightness of meeting an old acquaintance. “I was disappointed when you chose not to return as Transfiguration professor. Did it have something to do with my changes to the curriculum?” 

“You vile, pathetic man,” McGonagall snarled.

The corner of Voldemort’s mouth lifted. He raised his wand.

“ _Crucio._ ”

McGonagall’s screams were even louder than Lucius’.

“Neville Longbottom,” he said, lowering his wand and watching her shake. “Tell me where the Order is keeping him and I will be merciful.”

Her thin chest heaved; her square-rimmed glasses slipped further down her nose.

“Never.”

The curse struck again. Voldemort wondered if the house elves down below could hear her screams. He wondered if he could make her cries carry all the way up to the tower that had once belonged to her house.

When he withdrew his wand, she was chalk-white. He allowed her a moment to recover, and as she took great, heaving breaths, he stepped up to her.

“I have a secret, Minerva. Would you care to hear it?”

From the withering look on her face, Voldemort could guess that no, she did not. He continued anyway.

“I think you will enjoy it,” he said, smiling even wider. “It is, after all, about Harry.”

If it was possible, McGonagall turned whiter. Voldemort knew that the Order was just as clueless about Harry’s disappearance and current whereabouts as he himself had been.

“I know where he is,” Voldemort whispered. “And soon his bones will adorn my throne.”

“You’re lying.” But there was terror in her eyes. “If you knew where he was, you’d already have him.”

Voldemort laughed softly. He stepped away from her, his long robes slithering along the polished floor. “Neville Longbottom,” he repeated, turning to face her again, his wand trained on her heart. “Really, Minerva. Why waste your strength protecting yet another doomed child when I have already won?”


	3. Chapter 3

The boy was angry, Voldemort could tell.

“Something on your mind?”

Potter was cutting long strips of cloth from what had once been a uniform, though not one that had belonged to a human as there were at least five tentacle-like sleeves. They were once again in the Fire Chamber. Potter’s spare set of clothes (scavenged, like the alien uniform, from the skeletons that littered the Dome) were laid out on rickety drying racks formed by snapped branches from the giant tree. They were not alone in the chamber. The Heart Eaters had congregated around the pit during the night. Every time Voldemort entered the Dome, they were in a new location, initially clustered around the sunken pool and then scattered so thickly down a stretch of corridor that Potter took longer routes to bypass it. Could they sense Potter’s beating organ while frozen? Could they hear the boy talking? Did they purposefully choose to settle themselves in the areas Potter used most on the off chance that he might stumble and brush against one of them? Voldemort wondered if it was at all possible to take one of them back to Hogwarts. If controlled, they would be as formidable a force as Inferi.

Potter did not pause in his work. “No.”

“You seem bothered by something.”

“I’m not,” said the boy shortly.

If anyone else had been so brusque, Voldemort would have had them screaming on the floor, but instead he tamped down his anger and said softly, “You can talk to me, Harry.”

The boy considered his words, chewing on his bottom lip.

“I have friends who fought with me in the war and I keep trying to decide whether I should ask you if they …”

“Survived?” Voldemort supplied.

Potter nodded.

Voldemort’s lip-less mouth spread into a vicious grin. First McGonagall. Now this? How the Fates shined upon Lord Voldemort. He had not quite succeeded in teasing out Longbottom’s hideaway — McGonagall was a formidable witch with a mind like a steal trap — but he had gleamed a number of highly useful tidbits, ones that would assist him greatly in uprooting many secret Order supporters. He stepped closer to the boy. He knew people had aided him during the war. He knew some names and suspected others, but to receive the full list …

“I will do my best,” he assured him.

But instead of his oath soothing Potter, the boy grew more agitated, twisting the uniform in his hands, his jaw clenching.

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

“You wish to know who of your companions are waiting for you. I am more than happy to assist. What are their —”

“I said forget it!” Potter stood and stuffed his items into the satchel he always carried.

Strangely, Voldemort felt curiosity rather than anger at the boy’s abrasiveness. During his previous visits, Potter had been practically giddy for him to be there. What had caused such a swift change? Potter looked much the same, if albeit thinner, the circles under his eyes darker.

_Ah._

“When was the last time you slept, Harry?”

“Slept?” He laughed and the sound was not pleasant. “ _Slept?_ ”

“You should.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Potter replied harshly.

As the boy swung his bag over one bony shoulder, Voldemort studied him closer. He did not require the basic necessities of food and sleep, but Potter did. It would do him no good if the boy got himself killed because he became delirious.

“How long do you usually sleep?”

One of Potter’s shoulders jerked in an irritable shrug. “I don’t know. A few hours.”

“Why don’t you sleep now?” Voldemort suggested.

Potter looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. He brandished his arm at the dozen Heart Eaters around them.

“I can’t,” said the boy.

“I am here,” Voldemort reminded him patiently even though it was becoming difficult to keep his voice controlled. Potter was such an aggravating … “I will wake you.”

“For how long?” Potter’s eyes hardened. “You’re asleep right now. What if someone wakes you up? What if you get pulled away and don’t have time to wake _me_ up? I can’t risk that.”

Voldemort bit back a laugh. If anyone chose to wake the Dark Lord it would be the last thing they ever did.

“No one will wake me, Harry.”

The barest hint of fragility finally shone in Potter’s face. The boy was clearly exhausted. For the first time, the realization that he had been entirely alone on a foreign planet for two months and _survived_ struck Voldemort fully. What had that first night been like, he wondered. That first week? Potter wouldn’t have understood the dangers of the Heart Eaters. Had he witnessed one of those rodents be killed or had he been chased out of the Dome and into the night, running blindly through the snow until he miraculously fell into that cave? Potter was a fighter, but even warriors had breaking points and he was splintering.

_Not yet._ _You can’t break yet. Not until I have you in the Great Hall, begging and bleeding._

“You don’t want to sit around here and watch me sleep,” said Potter though Voldemort could see clearly that yes, that was exactly what Potter wanted.

“I don’t mind,” Voldemort replied softly.

The boy searched his face, or what he assumed was where his face was. He was always just short of the mark, usually staring at Voldemort’s chest. Voldemort fought the urge to place his finger beneath Potter’s chin and correct the angle so their eyes could make contact.

“Who are you?” Potter asked in wonderment and bewilderment.

Voldemort smiled and supplied the answer that would make Potter content.

“A friend.”

But Potter wasn’t content. He took a step closer, glaring at Voldemort. “Why were you gone so long? It’s been ten days.”

“Has it?” said Voldemort, surprised. “I thought it had been eight.”

Potter’s glare darkened.

“I have been busy, Harry.”

“Doing what?” he demanded.

Salazar, it was like babysitting a toddler. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for the statues to deal with the wretch for him.

“Working,” Voldemort replied coolly. “Something that I choose to stop doing when I visit you.”

Potter deflated, suddenly shame-faced. “Sorry.” He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. “I’m being a prick.”

“Yes, you are.”

The boy took a great, shuddering breath.

“It’s just that ever sense you started coming things have gotten easier, but they’ve also gotten a lot harder. I know that doesn’t make sense, but when you’re here, I feel more like myself, but when you leave it’s … it’s like …”

Voldemort watched him struggle.

The boy scrunched up his face.

“It’s like I can’t breathe,” Potter finished, barely audible.

Voldemort finally reached out and took him gently by the chin.

“Did I not inform you that I would take you from this place?”

Potter bit his bottom lip again.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“And do you believe me?”

“I want to.”

“But _do_ you?”

When Potter did not answer, Voldemort closed the distance between them with a step, his thumb shifting slightly against Potter’s skin.

“I understand how you feel.”

“No, you don’t,” said Potter at once.

“I do,” said Voldemort, giving the boy’s chin just the barest of squeezes. “ _I_ _do_. Do you believe that you are the only person to experience isolation and loss so extreme that you fear you will never see the end of it? That you fear you will lose your mind to it? I know, Harry. I _know_.”

_You, boy, have wounded me greater than any foe could have ever done and I shall pay you back, tenfold._

“You’ll stay?” Potter breathed. His eyes moved upward and for once, met Voldemort’s gaze. “Just for an hour? That’s all I need. An hour and I’ll be fine.”

The boy needed more than an hour. He needed days.

Voldemort released Potter’s chin and took hold of his hand, leading him back to the fire. The flames crackled and popped, and though heat radiated in waves around it, Voldemort felt nothing, save for Potter’s thin hand in his.

“Sleep,” Voldemort urged. “I will wake you before nightfall. Trust me, Harry. You are safe with me.”

Potter hesitated for only a fraction more, before he lay down, curling on his side, using his satchel as a pillow. Voldemort sat on the ground beside him and before the boy drifted off, he asked, “Why do you not wish to learn of your companions?”

Half asleep, Potter mumbled, “Believing they’re alive is easier than knowing otherwise.”

**xXx**

The house was flooded with all manner of ‘weirdos’, as his dad put it. For most of a year, the farmhouse, located in a nameless pocket of deep country, had been occupied only by Dudley, his mother, his father and the wizard and witch (Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones) who had taken them there last July. They were never allowed to leave the house, save for puttering around the overgrown garden and thicket of trees, which the protective spells included.

It had been a very strange year for Dudley. His mother and father behaved in much the manner one would expect at being uprooted from their home and routine. His father billowed his mustache and turned purple whenever Hestia or Dedalus threw about words like Quidditch and Fidelius Charm. He threatened to pack their bags and drive them back to Surrey, but each morning he lost his nerve, eating his kippers and toast silently, shriveling under Hestia’s sharp glare. His mum’s lips were in a constant pucker, sucking back words she longed to throw. Though they never admitted it, acting as if this was all some overblown annoyance, Dudley knew they were frightened. Just as frightened as he was. They overheard the same tense conversations between Hestia and Dedalus as he did. The war was not going well. And in early May, the worst possible thing happened.

“You-Know-Who’s won,” a girl with very bushy brown hair told them in the foyer, surrounded by a family of red-heads and worn-looking witches and wizards. “We’ve lost Hogwarts. We’ve lost everything.”

The girl, Hermione, sat now at the kitchen table. It was magically expanded to allow all the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix to sit comfortably around it. For someone who had grown up with a wizard, Dudley had never bothered to learn much about magic, finding the entire thing terrifying and confusing. It still terrified him. It still confused him to the point that he drove Hermione and Ron and Ginny crazy with impatience when he asked them to explain yet again how Apparition worked, but he asked anyway. For the first time in Dudley’s life, he wanted to understand this impossible force that was magic. He wanted to understand why he and his family were in hiding from a man who only went by _You-Know-Who_ and _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_. He wanted to understand why Harry was the root to saving them all and what it now meant that Harry was missing.

A lot had changed in a year.

He and his parents weren’t technically allowed at the meetings, but no one tried to shoo Dudley away as he stood at the kitchen door, trying to make his bulking mass less intrusive. His mother and father didn’t know he attended them. They thought he stayed safely tucked away in their corner of the house, watching telly in his room, and Dudley preferred to keep it that way. Ever since the Order and Ministry survivors had fled, their safe house had become headquarters. There were now so many witches and wizards and even goblins — _goblins_ — coming and going from the farmhouse that it was surprisingly easy for Dudley to slip away from his mum’s protective clutches. 

“We’re a few members short,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, “but I think we can go ahead and start. Gawain?”

The head Auror, a short, square-jawed wizard, nodded his head in agreement. “The South Route is still operating. However one of the stops along the East Line has been compromised. We will need to find another safe house for the Muggle-borns.”

“Understood,” said Kingsley. “Molly —?”

Molly Weasley and one of her son’s — Percy — were already bent double over a large map. Brilliant colored lines marked the Routes, the secret pathways from house to house that the Order had created to safely smuggle Muggle-borns and Muggles and anyone else who wished to flee England, wizards and witches included. Red meant an entire pathway had been discovered by Death Eaters or Snatchers, green lines were functional and black smudges were houses that could no longer be safely used. Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a spot on a green route and a small blot of black ink bloomed on the map.

“We can reroute them to Tenterden,” said Percy, studying the map.

“Charlie, Arthur,” said Kingsley, “head out to Tenterden tomorrow. See what locations will be best suited for our needs. How many are we moving on the East Line currently?”

Hermione checked a long list of names. “Five. Two are Muggles. One’s a goblin.”

“How is our supply of potions?”

She flipped pages and Ron leaned over her shoulder, consulting the constantly changing list along with her.

“According to our last report from Andromeda, two stops on the East have five bottles of blood-replenishing potion, but only two bottles of Skele-Grow —”

“The next batch will be ready by the end of the week,” said Horace Slughorn. “But there is only enough puffer fish spines for one more brew.”

“Lee and George should be back soon,” said Mr. Weasley. “They might have gotten some.” From down the hall they heard the front door open and close. “Maybe that’s them.”

Dudley shifted out of the way as Mr. Weasley hurried past. Mrs. Weasley stared after him, strained. Dudley understood why. Fred, George’s twin brother, had died in the battle. Dudley, like everyone else in the room, knew why George had leapt at one of the most dangerous jobs there was. He was reeling and this was his way of coping.

“Out of my way!”

The shout had them all turning. It wasn’t George or Lee who charged down the hall, flanked by Mr. Weasley, but a woman with short, spiky gray hair and brilliant yellow eyes. Dudley had only seen her once before, but Hermione had told him her name: Madam Hooch.

Shacklebolt rose to his feet, alarmed. “Rolanda, what’s happened?”

“Minerva, Kingsley!” Hooch cried. “She’s been captured!”

“No!” Mrs. Weasley gasped as Hermione covered her mouth.

Sybil Trelawney, a thin, bespectacled woman who gave Dudley the creeps as she always wandered about the house reading her tarot cards, clutched her chest and let out a horrified wail.

“How did it happen?” Robards demanded.

Filius Flitwick conjured a glass of water and Mr. Weasley helped Madam Hooch into a chair.

“We were waiting for Amos outside of Epping, but he was late. We were worried they’d missed the Portkey and were deciding how much longer to stick around when we were attacked.”

“Death Eaters? Snatchers?” asked Slughorn sharply.

Madam Hooch took a shaky gulp of water. “I don’t know. I didn’t recognize him. He came out of nowhere. He took Minerva — He took her to … _him_.”

“It’s not your fault, Rolanda,” said Pomona Sprout, who had grown very pale. “He won’t kill her. She’s too valuable.”

“We’ve got to get her out, Kingsley,” Hooch beseeched, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, we’ve got to!”

A terrible stillness settled over the room. Everyone who joined the Order and Ministry rebels knew the risks involved. They were spread too thin, their forces nothing compared to the Dark Lord’s. Each new member was told the same grim fact: If captured, do not expect rescue.

**xXx**

Voldemort closed his eyes. When next he opened them, he was no longer in his chamber, but in the sweeping endless white of the Drift. He always appeared in the same spot, perfectly positioned halfway between the Dome and Potter’s cave. The sun was high in the sky today. The rotation of the planet was not the same as Earth’s. Though he always chose to delve into the Drift at midnight, the sun was in a radically different location, sometimes at mid-day, other times just shy of sunset. Without even reaching out for the tug that pulled at his senses, Voldemort turned toward the Dome, knowing he would find him there. Potter never wasted daylight hours, using every second to warm himself by the fire, gather food and collect oil for the cave’s lamps.

Once inside the Dome, Voldemort followed the pull and it led him to the hot spring. Since this building was not a building at all, but a spaceship, Voldemort wondered if these explorers had landed upon the spring and built their base around it.

There were no Heart Eaters in the Bath Chamber today. Voldemort stepped into the room, looking for Potter.

The pool sloshed as his head broke the surface. He shook his head, sending water spraying. He hoisted himself out. Steam swirled, but Voldemort could see him easily. Water ran dripping down his legs. A blush from the hot water colored his pale skin a light pink. It struck Voldemort suddenly how fragile Potter appeared — one sharp twist of his far too thin neck and he would crash to the floor, a mannequin cut from his strings — and yet there was strength in his legs. The sinewy muscles of his back were visible enough to map. He was small, he was delicate, and yet Voldemort felt that he stood witness to the strongest will he’d ever encountered.

Voldemort wondered what those muscles would feel like. Would they tense, would they relax, if he were to place his hands upon Potter’s shoulder blades and slide them downward to the dip of his lower back, to the curve of his ass? Potter picked up a patched and scratchy cloth he used for a towel and turned, granting Voldemort a view of his chest, his stomach, his cock. But it was the impossible narrowness of Potter’s ankles, the gentle contour of a calf, the pale crook of knee and elbow that drew his attention. Suddenly, Voldemort wanted Potter in greater focus, without steam hazing the details. He wanted to see whether there was a blot, a freckle, a mark on that canvas of lightly blushed skin. He wanted to know if the only scar Potter possessed was the one he’d given him, but there had to be others. There were always others. A scrape from a fall. The accidental cut from a knife. He wanted to see — he wanted to touch — each of them.

Potter looked up and Voldemort jerked back behind a column, his heart suddenly pounding … or had it been pounding all along and he simply had not noticed? Though he was invisible to Potter, he knew the boy could still locate him. Did his spirit cause a disturbance in the air? Had Potter glimpsed the smallest flicker as he’d darted out of view? And why did it matter whether or not Potter knew he stared?

It didn’t matter at all, Voldemort answered himself, feeling oddly rattled. If he wished to stare at Potter, then he could stare. He marched out from behind the pillar just as Potter strode around it.

“Oh!” said Potter, surprised and happy. “You’re back. How are you?”

“Perfectly well,” Voldemort replied crisply. “And you?”

“Better,” said the boy after a pause. “Thanks,” he added in a softer voice, “for looking after me yesterday.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Voldemort, without thinking.

The blush in Potter’s cheeks from the pool deepened in color. He smiled, the grin stretching across his face and Voldemort felt a sensation in the pit of his stomach — the same sensation he felt when leaping into the air and soaring above the clouds. Potter’s hair dripped water droplets and Voldemort fought the urge to smooth the locks.

The boy glanced upward to check the sun’s placement in the sky, always checking and double-checking his time, and he suddenly tipped sideways, losing his balance; Voldemort grabbed his arm, steadying him.

“Sorry,” Potter grimaced, a hand to his temple. “I’ve been a bit lightheaded.”

“You need to eat.”

“I am eating,” said Potter.

“That tree does not look healthy and those rats —”

“Hoppers.”

“— are virtually skeletal. You should —”

“Don’t,” said Potter, tiredly. “We’ve been over this.”

Voldemort’s lips thinned in irritation. “You haven’t even tried the fruit.”

“Yeah,” said Potter dryly, “because it’s planted in a _graveyard_.”

“That means nothing.”

Potter’s eyes widened incredulously. He pulled himself from Voldemort’s hold and walked down a corridor, stopping before an opening.

“Right,” he said sarcastically, “as if that doesn’t scream _eat me and die_.”

Inside the chamber Potter stood before was another tree, far smaller than its colossal brother in the heart of the Dome. Its bark was electric blue and its leaves silver. Dangling on the tips of sprawling branches were deep purple fruits, large and succulent as perfectly ripe plums. Planted on a dais, the tree was surrounded by the dead. It was impossible to know whether the skeletons were of the crew who’d manned the ship or whether this planet drew voyagers to it like a magnet, but it was glaringly clear that this room — for whatever reason — was the one where everyone died.

He understood Potter’s wariness, but he pressed forward regardless.

“These bones are no proof that the fruit is poisonous. It is just as likely that the Heart Eaters carry their victims here.”

“They don’t.”

“Then perhaps this tree is the only nutritious source of food and some members of the crew tried to keep it for themselves,” Voldemort suggested. “Perhaps the fruit perishes in the cold and cannot be carried outside of the Dome.”

“Or perhaps it _kills_ you,” said Potter. “You can go on about it as long as you want. I’m not eating it.” He turned and headed down the corridor, the makeshift bath towel tied around his thin waist swinging about his ankles. “Coming?” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got some stringy meat and don’t-kill-you nuts roasting. Happy to share.”

_Cheeky devil._

But Voldemort followed him, all the same.

* * *

The table in his chamber was laden with all manner of food. At first the house elves had looked startled at the new, strange command, but every morning, like clockwork, the golden trays and platters filled with breakfast items, though Voldemort never ate a bite. This morning, a bowl of fresh cherries took center stage. He imagined Harry’s deft fingers plucking the thin stem from one of the red fruits and popping it in his mouth.

Did the boy like cherries?

Did it even matter?

A knock on his chamber door sounded.

“Enter.”

“My Lord,” said Mathis, bowing. “You called for me?”

“I did. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, my Lord.”

“Help yourself,” said Voldemort.

“Thank you.”

Voldemort wondered if Mathis suspected something was laced within the pumpkin juice or concealed in a crepe, but if he did, he kept his suspicions hidden, loading up his plate.

“The Order of the Phoenix has been escorting blood traitors and Muggles out of the country,” said Voldemort. “They use a manner of safe houses, enchanted to remain hidden. However, thanks to your capture of McGonagall, I now know the locations of four. The Death Eaters will be setting out to burn them to the ground. I want you to join them.”

“I will be delighted to, my Lord.”

Voldemort strode to one of the many high-arched windows that overlooked the Hogwarts grounds. The lake glistened under the summer sun.

“These witches and wizards who are assisting Mudbloods and Muggles out of my country have made a grave mistake. I want them to be made examples of. I want it to be perfectly clear what happens to those who harbor such filth. Do you think you can do that, Mathis?”

“Oh, yes, my Lord,” Mathis replied. “I will not disappoint you.”

“Then join the rest in the Great Hall. I will be down shortly.”

Though his food was only half eaten, Mathis rose, but he lingered.

“My Lord, there is a matter I would enjoy discussing with you, when you have the time.”

“Speak.”

“It reached my ears that you have acquired the legendary Elder Wand.”

Voldemort snorted disdainfully. “Legendary? Hardly. It is an utter disappointment.”

“May I study it, my Lord?” Mathis asked. “I am fascinated by its bloody history. I suspect it could be the oldest wand to date.”

Voldemort studied Mathis. He stepped away from the window, moving to an iron cabinet against a wall. He tapped a drawer, removing its protective enchantments. Inside rested two wands. He left Potter’s where it lay and picked up Dumbledore’s.

“Do what you like with it,” said Voldemort, holding it out for Mathis. “In my opinion it is only fit for kindling.”

Mathis pocketed the wand. “Thank you, my Lord.”

He bowed and departed, shutting the door behind him. Voldemort chose a cherry from the bowl and bit into it; the juices spread over his tongue. He worked the pit around his teeth.

Tomorrow, he would request the elves to send up peaches, the blush of their skin just the same as the blush that had colored Harry’s naked body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, Voldy passes over the Elder Wand. Probably not the best move on his part. The reason why he does is simple: He doesn’t really like it. Here’s this wand that everybody says is the greatest wand in history … and it doesn’t work right, even after killing Snape. (Just for clarity because I haven’t been able to specifically say: Harry’s entire speech to Voldy in Book 7 does not happen in this fic. He gets blasted to the Drift before he can.)
> 
> So why does he still have the wand if his opinion of it is dirt? I don’t really know. Perhaps it’s his old habit of keeping trophies. A reminder that he finally brought about Dumbledore’s downfall and death. Regardless, it’s necessary for the plot, so thank you Voldy for being a hoarder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to put in a character(s) death warning in the tags! Sorry! It doesn’t refer to McGonagall. She’s still alive.

The raids were a success. Voldemort stood in the Atrium, his gleaming, colossal statue of Magic is Might at his back, and took in the line of prisoners before him.

Onlookers and Daily Prophet reporters filled the Atrium to the very edges. This execution would be very well publicized. The Mudbloods and traitors shivered before him. One was quite young, as young as Harry. Had they been in the same year? Perhaps, even, the same house? But unlike this boy, Harry would not have lowered his eyes. Even when terrified, he used his fear as fuel, always the courageous lion.

How long would that courage last, Voldemort wondered? Trial after trial, test after test, Harry gritted his teeth and straightened his spine and never cowered. Never backed down. He was an incredible specimen.

Voldemort spoke quietly, yet his words were heard clearly in the silent hall.

“The Order of the Phoenix has not come to your aid. Had you hoped they would? They have _abandoned_ you. They speak of salvation and protection and yet they do not come for you. You, foolish witches and wizards, chose the wrong leader. But _I_ shall show mercy. Lord Voldemort rewards those who prove their usefulness. I shall spare the person who shares the whereabouts of Neville Longbottom.” Voldemort’s eyes traveled over the shivering line. “No takers?” he asked lightly. “Has he become your new savior? Need I remind you how I killed the first?”

“Liar!” a witch screamed from the line. “Harry lives! You haven’t beaten him!”

“ _Crucio!_ ”

The witch dropped to the ground. With her wand trained on the thrashing woman, Bella stepped forward, teeth bared.

“Speak out against your Lord again, filth,” she snarled.

“That will do, Bella,” said Voldemort, almost lazily.

Bella lifted her wand, glaring at the witch with disgust.

“Does anyone else have anything they wish to say?” Voldemort asked, extracting his own wand. “Don’t be shy.”

* * *

July slipped into August, and as it did, Potter grew unusually quiet. It was not strange for the boy to be subdued, often allowing Voldemort to fill the conversation. “I like hearing your stories,” he told him once. Unfortunately, Voldemort was growing low on suitable ones. He would need that Portkey soon. He suspected Potter would not enjoy tales of Muggle-baiting and murder.

And speaking of the Portkey …

“They are making progress,” Rookwood had relayed through the floo.

“And when do you suspect it will be completed?”

“I am not sure, my Lord.”

“They told me it could be done.”

“Yes,” Rookwood had agreed hesitantly. “Theoretically.”

“I did not enlist the greatest Unspeakables in Europe for theory. I enlisted them for results. If such a device is beyond their skill then I shall replace them. I want it finished, Rookwood.”

Though impatient for results, Voldemort was not worried. He was confident the Portkey would be crafted, not that it seemed to matter to Potter anymore.

At first, the boy had done nothing but hound Voldemort, seeking constant assurances, but for the last half dozen visits he had turned silent toward the entire topic. According to Severus, the boy possessed a curiosity to rival a cat’s. Something was off and Voldemort, instead of taking his nightly walk through the Forbidden Forest, turned in early, sealing his chamber door and pouring himself a large measure of sleeping draft. He settled onto his bed. It didn’t even require thinking of Harry in order for his spirit to leap across time and space to the Drift for he was always on the cusp of his consciousness.

The icy wind greeted him with shrieks, furious it could not throw Voldemort to the ground. He turned in the direction of the Dome, but had not gone three paces before stopping. Frowning, he rotated, looking in the direction that was Potter’s cave. The gentle tug that came from him was not issuing from the Dome as it always did. Voldemort glanced upward. The sun was straight overhead. Why was Harry not seeing to his daily chores? Had the boy been injured?

Voldemort set off, across the barren, frozen land, toward the small, half-hidden stick poking out of the ground that marked Potter’s hideaway. He stepped onto the flat stone and floated gently downward, coming to a rest inside the underground bunker.

The air was stale, the light dim and dismal. Only two of the lamps still burned. It took a moment for Voldemort’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. His pupils dilated and he could see as clearly as if the room was fully illuminated.

Potter did not know he was there. The boy sat on the floor, dressed in his much too large coat. His back was against the wall that tallied his imprisonment. He stared at nothing, his gaze unfocused.

“Harry?”

He jerked. His eyes searched the cave.

“Hello.” His voice was brittle.

“Have you been here all day?”

Potter didn’t answer.

“ _Harry_.”

“Yes,” Potter replied.

“Are you unwell?” Voldemort asked and Potter brandished a weak smile.

“You don’t have to keep coming here,” he said quietly.

The sense that something was wrong intensified.

“Why do you say that?” Voldemort asked.

Potter did not respond and Voldemort crossed the small cave and knelt before the boy, the better to see him. His eyes traveled over the scratches above his head.

“You’ve stopped counting.”

For the first time in Voldemort’s memory, Potter kept his eyes averted, staring at the floor.

“Talk to me, Harry.”

Potter looked at him then, meeting him directly in the eye, though the boy would never know that.

“I’m not getting out.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not. So I want you to —”

“You can’t give up, Harry.”

“What right do you have to say that?” Potter demanded, suddenly furious. “You’re not _here_. You don’t understa —”

Potter’s voice caught in his throat as Voldemort placed his hands on either side of his face, stilling him; the pads of his fingers pressed firm against Potter’s frozen skin. It was incredible he had not yet died from hypothermia.

“Say that again. Say that I am not here.”

“You aren’t trapped,” Potter whispered, shaking. “I can’t keep — I don’t want —” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please stop …”

“Stop coming so you can kill yourself? No, Harry.”

A tear slipped free, freezing instantly on his skin.

“I promised to bring you home,” Voldemort continued, “and I always keep my promises.”

“It won’t work.”

“It will,” Voldemort insisted. His fingers spread, the pads pressing a fraction deeper against Potter’s cheekbones. “I have never failed. Give me time.”

Potter’s eyes searched him, so open, so full of hope. So full of pain.

“Believe in me,” Voldemort urged. “Trust me.”

“I want to,” Potter whispered. He lifted his hand and touched the back of Voldemort’s wrist. Voldemort released his hold of the boy, but Potter did not release his hold of Voldemort. He watched silently as Potter’s fingers explored his own, ghosting across the digits and palm. He allowed it.

“I wish I could see you.”

The boy swallowed and Voldemort could not help but notice the movement of his throat, how his lips, though chapped and tinged with blue, were the perfect shape. Potter’s fingers explored, trailing along his arm to his shoulder, skating up his neck to his chin. Potter stilled as if waiting for Voldemort to stop him. If anyone else had touched him in such a fashion, they would have lost their hand, and yet Voldemort found himself strangely immobilized. The boy was pale as death, the scar upon his forehead livid and his eyes ... dilated to the point that Voldemort could hardly spot their vibrant green.

Potter’s fingers shifted a quarter inch up and touched Voldemort’s bottom lip. His eyes flickered. He looked almost feverish. Before Voldemort could put an end to all this silliness, Potter had leaned forward and pressed his lips to his.

Voldemort reacted without thinking. He jerked back, his spirit rushing to his body.

**xXx**

The Phantom vanished and Harry was frozen in shock. His hand was still raised in midair, just where the Phantom’s face had been seconds before. His lips tingled.

The shock sped out of his system, horror crashing in right behind it.

_Why did you do that? Why did you do that? **Why did you do that?**_

There was no answer. Whatever lunatic who had commandeered his brain was mute.

The horror shifted into something that left him even colder: He’d kissed the only friend he had in this horrible place and with one stupid, spontaneous, delirious action, that only friend was gone.

Would he come back?

For the first time in months, Harry was slapped awake.

 _What the fuck are you doing?_ he asked himself. _What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?_

He had hit the bottom of the pit and found himself looking upward, marveling at the tiny speck of light that he’d fallen from. If the Phantom had not come when he had, would Harry have gone through with suicide? Would he have sat in this cave until he’d either starved to death or been frozen solid?

He’d fucked up. He’d sunk so deep into the quagmire that he’d nearly been swallowed by it. It was impossible to know whether the Phantom would return, but maybe that was for the best. Harry grabbed his bag from the floor and clambered painfully to his feet, his legs stiff from the cold. There were probably only a few hours left of daylight, and he — goddammit — would make the most of them.

After all, he wasn’t alone. He had himself to look after.

* * *

Harry was too cold, too exhausted, too uncomfortable to sleep. Too many nights spent on the frozen rock floor had his back and hips bruised and sore. He curled up as tight as a clenched fist under the thick coat, trying to capture a hint of warmth, but there was none. The shakes came, bone-shuddering and teeth chattering. He closed his eyes and imagined a place far away. The Phantom was with him, body as warm and welcoming as his voice. He imagined arms, legs, and torso scorching against his, a burning furnace that drove away the biting cold.

He rolled onto his back, the coat’s heavy weight transforming into the Phantom’s. In all his visits, the Phantom had only touched him casually — the reassuring grip on the wrist, a steadying hold on a forearm — but once, he had taken Harry’s chin, a thumb rubbing slightly, left and right. Harry imagined those fingers moving down his chest and stomach, kneading life back into his thighs. A hot tongue moved in his mouth and Harry wanted to swallow it, swallow him, crawl inside the Phantom’s warmth and never leave. Even his voice had been molten, deep and melodious. Harry would never hear it again.

He trailed his own hand down his body. It slipped under his pants and grasped his cock. He worked it to hardness as the Phantom’s voice — _that voice_ — filled his head _;_ it was a voice Harry half knew but couldn’t place; it was a voice that belonged on the radio, belonged to an actor; it mesmerized and enthralled, luscious as a cello. He could listen to that voice for hours. Harry bit his bottom lip, pumping faster. The Phantom’s long, perfect fingers dipped around him, grasping his arse. One slender finger slid down his cleft; the tip pressed inside him.

His orgasm surged and Harry let out a half-startled cry. Gasping, he blinked up at the rocky, dark ceiling. The coat had fallen off his head during his wank and he hadn’t noticed. His breathing steadied and he pulled the coat back over his head, curling once more onto his side, but he imagined the Phantom taking his spunk-covered fingers into his mouth and licking each digit clean.

**xXx**

For nine days Voldemort refused slumber. He banished his supply of sleeping potion. He dove into his work of tracking down the Order and rogue Ministry officials. He single-handedly snatched up so many fleeing Muggles and Mudbloods that Azkaban’s cells brimmed and still Harry haunted him. He spotted him in the shine of a golden plate, in the shimmer of a goblet of wine; his scent permeated the rain; his voice reverberated in the corridors so clearly that Voldemort would turn, searching.

Day and night, his mind betrayed him, sprouting Harry into life as often as weeds shooting up after a summer storm. Voldemort caught himself remembering Harry’s nakedness, glistening and dripping from the pool. In the dark and solitude of his chamber he imagined peeling away robes, revealing skin that shivered under his roaming hands and Harry would beg for Voldemort to take him. Take all of him.

One kiss. One kiss and Voldemort was ensnared, body and mind. The curse that was Harry Potter had morphed into something beyond all reason. Every time he replayed the press of Harry’s lips, rough and frozen against his, Voldemort’s blood surged. What if he hadn’t fled? What if he’d pulled the boy flush? What if he’d opened his mouth in reply?

This had to stop. Lord Voldemort did not _pine_. These … _urges_ coursing through him must be eradicated.

_Kill him._

Stop Harry’s heart and he would stop the torment. His magic did not travel with him into the Drift, but there were other ways to end a life. Bash his head against a stone pillar; drown him in the pool; snap his neck.

Eradicate the cancer. Cut off the rotting limb.

How had this happened? How had the boy slithered inside him? What magic did Harry wield? He wanted to be free of it. He wished he’d never heard the name Harry Potter. He wished he’d never attacked the child in Godric’s Hollow, starting this cascade of events that had led him here, aching and wanting.

* * *

“My Lord.”

Voldemort did not shift his eyes from the view of the Forbidden Forest. A thestral burst out of its canopy, circled the blood-red sky, and dove back into its leafy depths.

“Yes, Bella?”

Her buckled shoes clicked on the Astronomy tower’s stonework.

“May I be permitted to speak?”

“Of course.”

“I do not trust Mathis, my Lord.”

“Neither do I,” Voldemort agreed, “but trust is earned, which is why I have ordered him to apprehend the last traitorous members of your family. I wonder, will your husband be next?”

Bella did not rise to the bait. Instead, as Voldemort had expected she would, she said furiously, “He is to find Lucius and Draco? I should be the one to do that, my Lord!”

“You would not be tempted to show them mercy?” Voldemort asked her, turning to face her. “Your own nephew?”

Bella’s fury hardened. “They are sewer rats. They have disgraced you. They are as dead to me as my sister — _both_ my sisters. Let me bring them to you and I will prove it.”

“I would,” said Voldemort amused, “if it were not for the fact that you would deliver them in a matchbox. Rest assured, you shall have your time with them.”

Pleasure colored her cheeks. 

“My Lord … forgive me if I am too bold, but you’ve seemed … unhappy of late.”

“Have I?” Voldemort replied lightly.

“I would do anything to change that. I would do anything to please you, my Lord.”

Her dark, hooded eyes smoldered. Distantly, Voldemort knew she was attractive, her robes cut in a manner that accentuated her curves. He’d never thought much on the matter. The human form had never captivated him. Not until an unexpected day when he’d seen Harry’s flushed skin, glistening, dripping …

What if he merely craved a body — any body? In his youth he’d experimented and, finding it uninspiring, moved on. Somehow, Potter had ignited his blood again, sparking an interest he’d long ago thought snuffed out. This was purely carnal. The boy was not _special_. He was a body, just a body.

Voldemort cocked his head, studying her. Her red lips and fine face brought nothing — no stirrings of lust — and yet that constant ache remained in the pit of his stomach. That constant _want_ that kept him on edge did not wane.

“You are correct, Bella,” he said quietly. “I am unhappy.”

“Let me help you.”

“And how would you help me, Bella?”

The dying rays of the sun fell upon her face.

“Anything, my Lord. For you, I would do anything.”

* * *

He was not gentle, but Bella urged him for more. The bed shuddered beneath them. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Would her lips feel the same as Harry’s? As the bed jerked, as her wild hair fanned out on the pillow, Voldemort imagined him. If he could bring back one of Harry’s hairs would her breathless ‘ _anything_ ’ include drinking Polyjuice Potion? But Voldemort would never know the answer to that. He could not bring anything back with him from the Drift. If he could, Harry would already be here, perhaps in this exact same position.

He could find a boy with similar bone structure and height. He could transfigure him into a near perfect replica. He could have his own Harry every night and let the original wither away; fade into a distant, dreadful memory.

He could do that. He could … he could …

Voldemort pulled out just in time and his orgasm shot over Bella’s stomach. Just as Harry had done, Bella reached out to touch his face, affection deepening the passion in her eyes.

“Go.”

The anger in his voice stilled her. Her eyes went wide with fear. Without a word, she scooted out from beneath him, picked up her robes from the floor and hurried from the chamber without a look back.

Voldemort did not move from his position, staring down at the pillow where Bella’s head had been. Tremors raced through him, electricity crackling through his bloodstream.

A body was just a body and yet …

“ _Damn you._ ”

He wasn’t sure if he cursed himself or Harry.

**xXx**

The Phantom’s presence was the gentle vibration of plucked strings on a harp. For a moment, Harry was sure he’d imagined it, but he carefully set down his bag, the nuts clanking inside it, and slowly turned. There he stood, the hazy, invisible blur; the man Harry had been sure he would never see again. How many days had passed? He had not been able to bring himself to scratch more lines into the wall. The Phantom stood a yard away. Now that he was back, Harry’s long hours rehearsing what he’d say if the man should ever return slipped away and all that remained was panic.

“I’m sorry,” Harry rattled. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t —”

**Be quiet.**

Harry’s mouth snapped shut as the Phantom’s voice rang clear as a gong inside his head. The shimmer shifted; the Phantom moved forward until he stood right before him. Harry was frozen in place. He wished, for the thousandth time, that he could see the man’s face.

Fingers touched his neck. Startled, Harry flinched.

“Sor —”

He sucked in his apology as the Phantom’s irritation jabbed him like a stick in the side. The fingers shifted until they came to rest at his pulse point. Harry closed his eyes, feeling that if he so much as breathed the Phantom would vanish. Soft, warm puffs of air against his mouth were his only warning before a tongue brushed his lips. Startled again, Harry’s eyes flew open and then he melted, opening his mouth and meeting that tongue with his. The fingers shifted to the base of his skull, tilting him back — he kept forgetting how tall the Phantom was — and he was being kissed more deeply than he’d ever been kissed in his life. The Phantom’s fingers were in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. Harry grabbed whatever he could, clinging to robes as slick as silk, his knees threatening to give out.

The Phantom broke contact and Harry was lost. His lips traveled over what he thought might be the point of a chin, searching for that mouth again.

**_Harry._ **

The breathless sigh echoed inside Harry’s brain. It made his blood spark. That voice. That glorious voice. It was the most erotic thing Harry had ever heard.

“Say my name again,” Harry whispered against the smooth skin of a cheek.

The Phantom shivered and Harry felt something hard press against his hip. His eyes widened. His brain screeched to a halt as he realized what that was. As the Phantom pulled him flush, Harry suddenly noticed how dark it had become.

“Shit!”

The Phantom’s affront was a needle poke.

“Not you,” Harry amended. He scooped up his bag from the ground. “The sun’s going down.” He had become so distracted, he’d nearly lost track. “Quick!”

**xXx**

Voldemort watched Harry light the oil lamps scattered about the cave. He dropped his pack onto the floor; more of those odd nuts rolled free from the opening.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Voldemort replied.

Harry swallowed, accentuating the chords of his throat. The boy was nervous, fidgeting with the loose threads on the coat’s cuffs.

“What changed your mind?”

“You,” Voldemort answered. “I can’t seem to be able to quit you, Harry Potter.”

Harry released a shaky exhale, his breath mist in the frigid cave. Voldemort understood that Harry could not start fires here; the space was too small. The cave would clog with smoke to near suffocation, even with the flat rock removed.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Stop apologizing.” Voldemort took a step and, whether conscious or not, Harry took a step back, bumping up against a wall.

A weak grin flashed across Harry’s face. He was thin. So terribly thin. Thinner than the last time Voldemort had seen him. Had he been sleeping? Had he been eating? Another step and Harry was pinned. He took his face in his hands and kissed him again. His lips could have been imbued with Firewhisky for how they made Voldemort’s head swim. He couldn’t get enough. Voldemort pressed him firmer against the cave wall and ran the tip of his tongue along the roof of Harry’s mouth.

Harry moaned and clutched Voldemort’s shoulders, kissing him back, but when Voldemort moved his thigh between Harry’s legs, he jerked. His hands flattened against Voldemort’s chest and pushed him back.

“Harry …”

“Just — give — me — a — minute,” Harry said, breathing hard.

With great restraint, Voldemort let him collect himself.

“I think — I think we should slow down.”

“Slow down?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, still keeping Voldemort at arm’s length. “Not that I don’t like this. I do. I _really_ do. It’s just … I don’t want to rush into anything.”

“I assume ‘rush’ means sex?” Voldemort asked.

Already pink-cheeked from the cold, Harry reddened further, but to his credit, he did not lower his gaze.

“Yeah,” he said.

“I suppose I can agree to that,” Voldemort replied, after a pause.

Relief spread over Harry’s face.

“But it depends on whether or not kissing still counts as slow,” Voldemort continued. “Because I don’t think I can stop doing that.”

Harry grinned. His fingers curled into the fabric of Voldemort’s robes, drawing him back in.

“Kissing’s absolutely okay.”

* * *

Voldemort walked through the Forbidden Forest with Harry on his tongue. How would the sweetness of his mouth pair with peach, plum, apricot? Chocolate? Wine? He would lay him out like a nymph and taste everything that passed those lips. Harry’s skin would turn golden in the sun. He would never be touched by cold again. The only shivers that would shudder through him would be the ones caused by flesh on flesh.

“Want any?” Harry had offered, after they’d grown too short of breath to continue kissing, digging out a strip of Hopper meat from his bag that he’d cooked in the Dome.

“No.”

“Don’t know what you’re missing,” Harry had teased, a lightness and brightness that Voldemort had only spotted in fleeting moments returning with full force.

Sunlight shot through the forest’s canopy and Voldemort followed the flight path of a bird as it darted overhead. With magic, Voldemort could transfigure the shriveled meat Harry chewed into crisp-skinned turkey legs. He could transform Harry’s icy, grim sanctuary into a blissfully warm grotto. But only his spirit was allowed to enter the Drift. It was Harry’s presence — something he still did not understand — that made his soul physical enough to touch. He could not lift so much as a pebble, much less spin it into a shape that would be useful for the boy — a blanket, a dagger, earmuffs.

But his fingers took form against Harry’s skin. Though they slipped through rock and snow and the walls of the Dome, they made contact with the boy. They could run through his hair. He could inhale him. He could taste him.

After his grisly meal, Harry had settled on the cave floor, his burly coat wrapped snug about his shoulders, and yet, his teeth chattered. Voldemort had moved before he’d even considered the action. He’d lowered down behind Harry and pulled him against him, holding him in his arms. He didn’t know if his form gave off warmth — he doubted it — but Harry sank into him all the same.

“Don’t go,” Harry had whispered as the distant sounds of Heart Eaters waking from their slumber reached them — guttural and vicious, a constant scream of hunger. “Please. Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Voldemort promised. “I will stay all night.” The potent sleeping draft he’d consumed would make sure of that. He took Harry’s hand and kissed each fingertip.

The scent of Harry remained with him when the potion inevitably wore off and his rebellious mind yanked him back to his body. But like water trickling through cupped fingers, the scent faded, eventually drawing him out of the castle, causing Voldemort to walk through the forest, trying to reclaim that unique scent of pine and constantly failing.

* * *

Harry bent over to retrieve the branches he had snapped from the giant tree for the fire and Voldemort saw him wince.

“Are you hurt?”

Harry shook his head. “My back’s just sick of sleeping on the floor.”

“Lie down.”

Harry blinked in his direction. “What?”

“Lie down,” Voldemort repeated. “On your stomach. And take off your shirt.”

Harry blushed. “I’m okay. Really.”

“ _Lie down_. Or I will pin you down myself.”

Harry blushed deeper, a playful smile flickering. He removed his shirt, spread his coat on the cold, metal floor, and stretched out on his front, hands tucking beneath his chin.

**xXx**

Fingers pressed into his lower back.

**You’re tense.**

Harry released the breath he’d been holding and the hands moved, palms digging into his skin, working the knots loose. His heart thundered.

Ginny had done this once. Had sat behind him on the couch in the Gryffindor common room and rubbed his shoulders. They had teased Ron about tattoos. Harry grinned even as his heart ached.

The Phantom’s hands slid up his spine and his breath stuttered.

**Have you made any attempts on your life today?**

It took a moment for Harry’s brain to kick back into gear, for all the blood had rushed to his cock as the Phantom’s hands pressed against his shoulder blades.

“No,” said Harry, thrown by the question.

**Good.**

The Phantom’s hands roamed downward again, kneading the tenderness of his left side.

Harry sucked in a breath and the Phantom stilled.

**Am I being too firm?**

“No,” Harry quickly amended, blushing red hot. “No, it feels amazing.”

Thank God he was lying on his stomach. The Phantom couldn’t see his flushed face or his throbbing cock. He had a feeling the Phantom was smirking.

“Since we’re asking bold questions —”

**Was I being bold?**

“Asking me about whether or not I’m feeling suicidal —”

 **Inquiring into your mental health is not bold, Harry,** the Phantom corrected. **It is a concern.**

“Is it?” said Harry, embarrassment and arousal making him suddenly waspish; he didn’t like remembering that moment of time. “Well, you don’t need to be. I’m fine.”

A hand gripped his shoulder and before he could fight against it, he’d been flipped over onto his back.

 **Why yes,** the Phantom agreed, voice laced with mirth. **I can tell that you’re very _fine_ indeed. **

Flaming, Harry tried to cover up the obvious tent in his jeans, but the Phantom grabbed his wrist.

“Are you trying to be a jerk?” Harry snapped.

 **No, Harry,** the Phantom purred, **I’m trying to help you relax.**

And the Phantom was on top of him, kissing him. Both hands were captured, trapped above his head as all of the man’s weight rested upon Harry.

 **Are you sure we can’t have sex?** the Phantom murmured, grinding his hips against Harry’s with each sibilant word. **Are you very, _very_ sur —**

The heavy weight atop Harry vanished. Alarmed, Harry rose up onto his elbows.

“Phantom?”

But he had gone.

**xXx**

Voldemort sat up from his bed, enraged by his summons. He snatched up his wand. A window burst open and he flew into the sunlight, straight towards London. His fury that he’d been unceremoniously snatched away from Harry made him fly faster than he’d ever flown. He entered the Ministry of Magic in a towering rage.

At the sight of him, Ministry workers fled from his path.

“My Lord!” Yaxley greeted, stupidly hurrying forward and bowing. “Such an honor for you to grace us with your —”

Yaxley screamed under Voldemort’s Cruciatus. The lines before the lifts at the end of the Atrium dispersed instantly as Yaxley’s howls reverberated about the silent hall. Voldemort entered a vacant elevator and descended to the Department of Mysteries.

Through the blue-burning candle entrance with its circulating doors, into the Time Room, onward to the Space Chamber — Voldemort had not returned to it since he’d enlisted his five Unspeakables to the task of reaching Harry’s planet. He had left Rookwood to watch over their work, sealing off the chamber so they could not leave until the job was done. The moment he stepped through the door and Rookwood saw his face, the pock-marked coward dove for cover behind a desk. A boiling flask exploded into shards seconds later. The Unspeakables screamed.

“My Lord!” Rookwood yelled from behind the desk. “They have done it, my Lord!”

Voldemort paused. He turned to the trembling Unspeakables, who bunched up even more. Their long, forced labor had made them worn, but not nearly as worn as Harry.

“Have you?” he breathed.

Four of the five pushed a witch forward — Joanna Glasser.

“N-nearly, my Lord,” she answered.

“Nearly?” said Voldemort dangerously. “You bring me here for _nearly_?”

“We have reached the planet!” Glasser clarified quickly.

Voldemort lowered his wand, his heart no longer pounding with unspent wrath, but with trepidation. Had they seen Harry? If anyone discovered that Harry was alive …

“And?” Voldemort pressed.

“The Planetary Compass only held long enough for Unspeakable Jira to appear upon the planet in question for seven seconds.”

Voldemort’s gleaming eyes darted to a balding, olive-skinned wizard.

“And what did you see, Unspeakable Jira?”

“A wasteland, my Lord. Covered in ice and snow. It is unlivable.”

“Unlivable.” Voldemort’s lipless mouth curved into a smile. If only they knew. “Where is this compass?”

From the table where the Unspeakables stood, Glasser levitated a small, multi-ringed compass from a glass case. It rotated in the air before Voldemort. Beautifully etched, gleaming with purple and rose runes, it hung from a golden chain, much like the lost Time Turners.

“I will need more than seven seconds.”

The Unspeakables looked at each other, alarmed.

“But my Lord,” Jira began, “why this planet? We know of so many others that are more suited for explor —”

The wizard’s words were lost in a scream. Voldemort dropped the curse and watched the man struggle to regain himself.

“Do the rest of you question my orders?” he asked coldly.

They shook their heads.

“Good. Contact me when it is fully functional.”

And he departed, barely noticing their shaky murmurs of “Yes, my Lord.” He must return to Hogwarts at once. There was much to prepare for Harry’s homecoming.

**xXx**

The Bath Chamber was gloriously hot. It put Harry in a stupor. He floated until his skin pruned, and then, laboriously, he climbed out, dried himself, dressed, and though there was still so much to be done before nightfall (food, oil, sharpening a new rock after breaking the last one), he collapsed against one of the chamber’s smooth walls; his feet slid out from under him and he sank to the ground. He was so tired. He’d just sit here for a little while. Just for a few minutes.

But the minutes ticked and Harry did not rise. The little energy he’d had that morning leeched out of him with every breath. He watched the sun travel across the glass-domed roof with sluggish disinterest. He wasn’t even hungry.

A disturbance in the swirling steam in the corner of his eye: his Phantom had returned. It felt days since his last visit, but Harry couldn’t be sure. Time was odd in the Drift.

“Hello,” he greeted quietly.

The shimmer shifted, kneeling perhaps. Invisible fingers touched his face.

 **What’s wrong?** asked the Phantom at once. **Tell me.**

“I think I’m coming down with something.” And as if the sickness had been waiting for this very moment, he began to cough. The Phantom’s hands retreated from his face, moving to his shoulders as he heaved.

**You need to get back to the cave.**

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t finished —”

**You are ill. You must rest.**

The Phantom took Harry’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Vertigo struck and Harry swayed dangerously. The Phantom held him firmly, stabilizing him.

 **Put your coat on,** the Phantom urged.

As he did what the Phantom said with stiff fingers awkwardly buttoning up the coat and exhaustion muddling his brain, Harry realized that if the Phantom had not come when he had he would have had to get to his feet on his own. He would have had to convince himself to stumble out into the Drift.

The flood of gratitude that surged through him had him wanting to press kisses to whatever part of the Phantom he could reach, be it shoulder or neck. That this stranger, who had always been so much more, came to him again and again to help, to ease the loneliness … _Thank you_ , Harry wanted to say. _Thank you, thank you._

The moment they stepped outside, Harry’s knees buckled. The cold sliced through him worse than ever. The Phantom’s hold tightened, pulling him into that frozen hell until he was half dragging, half carrying Harry.

The coughing returned, causing tears to spring into his eyes, freezing on his eyelashes. It was a miracle they made it to the cave. The Phantom lowered him to the floor and Harry covered his mouth, still coughing. Something wet hit his palm. He looked and saw a speck of red. Quickly, he closed his fist and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was hard to tell, but he didn’t think the Phantom had seen.

“Thank you,” said Harry shakily.

A shift in the lamp-light and Harry found himself wrapped in arms; he was pulled into the Phantom’s embrace and Harry sagged against a shoulder.

**I’m going to bring you home.**

“Don’t say that,” Harry muttered.

The arms tightened around him.

**I told you I’d find a way. I’m close. It won’t be long now.**

Harry shook, daring to hope.

“Home?”

**_Home._ **

Harry clutched the Phantom’s robes.

“Don’t — Don’t say that. Don’t say that and not mean it.”

**I mean it. You’re leaving this place.**

“When?”

**Soon.**

“ _How_ soon?”

**Harry, you must calm yourself —**

“No! You can’t tell me you’re taking me away and —” His lungs shut him off. He turned away, each cough bone-rattling. When it ended, the Phantom cupped his sweating cheek. A finger traced over Harry’s lips. A red stain floated in midair in the shape of a thumb.

“I’m — fine,” Harry heaved, but he wasn’t. The cold was sinking in its teeth. Inch by inch, he felt it bite deeper. “Why can’t you take me now?” he rasped. “Why —”

The Phantom shushed him gently. He held him in his arms.

 **Rest** , he soothed. **When next I come, I will take you from this place. You have my word, Harry. Just hold on a little longer. Hold on for me.**

Harry laughed and the laughter became sobs. Hold on? He’d been holding on for months. The Phantom’s fingers carded his hair, but Harry hardly felt them. The cold sank deeper.

**Hold on. Hold on.**

_Hold on, Harry._ The Phantom’s voice became Hermione’s and Ron’s. They were alive. They had to be. He’d see them again in a world free of Voldemort.

Home. He was going _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve spent days going back and forth wondering if this chapter should be split in two or not. Ultimately, I decided you lovely readers would prefer one large cliffhanger chapter over two smaller cliffhanger chapters.
> 
> And if you’re wondering how in the world does Harry not notice that his invisible Phantom seems to be a bit noseless with all that snogging … well … erm … ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	5. Part Two: Chapter 5

**“With such a hell in your heart and your head, how can you live? How can you love?”**

  
**― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, _The Brothers Karamazov_  
**

* * *

The stag led Harry through the Forbidden Forest. He stumbled on a root and it paused, waiting for him to lumber back to his feet before continuing onward. Harry wanted to run for he knew where they were going, but he was too weak, his legs too exhausted. Home. Each step brought him closer.

Walking became too painful so he crawled, fingers stinging and bleeding from sharp rocks, but he kept going. Just a bit more … a little bit more …

His eyes stung from the Patronus’ brilliance. Harry winced as it intensified into a ball of blinding light and he shielded his eyes. It washed out everything, erasing the dark forest. It pressed against his eardrums, making them pop.

And then it was gone. Blinking, Harry lowered his bleeding hands and found himself before the most spectacular tree. It could have been plucked from a children’s Christmas book: the leaves shimmered silver; the fruit was plump and purple, winking like ornaments.

He was so hungry.

He reached up, his arm shaking with the effort. The tree seemed to welcome him. Its leaves rustled without wind — a branch bent toward him. Harry’s bloody fingers slipped on a dangling fruit.

_Yes!_

He brought the plum to his mouth. His teeth broke through its delicate skin and it wasn’t sugar that hit his taste buds, but roast lamb, tomato jam, boiled potatoes, blackened sausage, treacle tart. He smelled candle wax and parchment; the sharp assertiveness of broom polish. He heard the rustle of owl wings.

Home. He was home.

The plum fell from his fingers. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he knew no more.

* * *

Had a cleaver split open his skull? Head pounding, Harry groaned. He rose onto his palms and something slid out from under him.

Harry froze.

Bones. He was lying in a sea of bones. A half-eaten plum had rolled into a skull’s eye socket.

What was he doing in the Bone Chamber? How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered was the Phantom helping him to the cave. Had Harry walked all the way back here? If it had been dark … if he had bumped into a Heart Eater …

_Heart Eaters._

The Bone Chamber was too dark. The Silver Tree glowed, illuminating a pool of light around it; deep shadow clung to the edges of the room. He scrambled to his feet, bones rolling out from under him, just as the first shrieks reached his ears.

The sun had set; they were awake.

Harry scrambled over the dead, racing out of the chamber, but he hesitated in the corridor, listening. Which way were they coming?

The answer came instantly. A cluster of Heart Eaters appeared at the end of the corridor, slamming into the wall. Their misshapen feet were ill equipped on the slick, metal floor and they slid as badly as Harry had on the skeletons.

He knew the Dome like the back of his hand, but in the dark Harry ran blind. He banged off walls, taking turns at random and all the while, the Heart Eaters called to each other, their screams ricocheting so that he thought they were right behind him —

“AHHH!”

His foot landed on something that rolled and his legs kicked out from under him; he landed hard on his back. Something rustled above him. The colossal Black Tree. He’d run into the center of the Dome and entrances circled all around him. Even as he got back to his feet, even as Heart Eaters appeared in three separate openings, he knew it was over. He couldn’t out run them, but he could take a few down with him. Gritting his teeth, he groped the base of the tree for a fallen branch to use as a weapon.

The Heart Eaters charged, their clawed hands outstretched; Harry braced himself —

A blast of green light shot out of nowhere, hitting a Heart Eater in the head. It crashed to the ground mid-stride, dead. Spells lit up the dark chamber like a laser show and the Heart Eaters forgot Harry, focused now on the newcomer. Stunned, Harry backed away.

It couldn’t be …

The Heart Eaters dropped one after the other, no match against Voldemort’s Killing Curse.

The branch slipped from Harry’s numb fingers. His brain felt jammed, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

A flash of white in the corner of his eye — there was no time to react as a Heart Eater appeared around the tree’s trunk and leapt, tackling Harry. It plunged one taloned-hand into his chest.

Harry screamed as his ribs splintered. The Heart Eater dug deeper, seeking its prize.

“ _AVADA KEDAVRA!_ ”

The force of the spell blasted the Heart Eater off him, but Harry couldn’t move. Blood saturated his front; his chest was ripped open —

“Harry!”

Voldemort’s bone-white face appeared before him.

_No. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening._

Voldemort pointed his wand at Harry’s chest and a blue light emitted from the tip, but the ribs did not heal; the wound did not close. Voldemort’s eyes widened. Harry tried to push Voldemort away, delirious with pain, but Voldemort took hold of Harry’s hand tightly as he clutched a small compass that dangled around his neck. Harry felt compressed, like he was being stuffed inside a small box. The pressure built and the pain in his chest became unbearable. Blood flooded his mouth. He was choking.

The compression stopped; his airwaves cleared; voices shouted. He was lifted into the air, but not with hands, with levitation. Vision blurred and voices muddled.

“You said he was ill!” an accusatory voice sounded above him.

“He was attacked.”

“Healer Smethwyck, the wound’s not closing!”

The voices grew distant. Everything grew distant, until there was nothing but white. Perhaps he had not left the Drift after all.

“Drink, Harry.”

The white was a face. A terrifying face with red eyes.

“Drink.”

Fingers pried open his mouth, tipping potions down his throat as Voldemort’s sibilant voice urged him to swallow. The fingers caressed his throat, they traveled over his face, they carded through his hair.

_No._

“That’s it, Harry.”

_No. No, it can’t be._

“Rest now.”

_The Phantom can’t be Voldemort._

“Rest.”

And as if Voldemort’s word had been a spell, sleep fell upon Harry like a curtain.

* * *

Birdsong woke him and the sound made his stomach clench sickly though it took a while before he understood why.

There were no birds in the Drift.

Dreading what he would find, he opened his eyes. His glasses were gone, but he could still make out the hazy furnishings of a bedroom. He was lying in a handsome bed, the gilded ceiling as golden as the sun.

It had been real. All of it.

The soft clinking of glass against glass had him looking to the left where two figures in lime-green robes were bent over a work table. As if he could sense him, the oldest of the pair looked up from his work.

“Mr. Potter!” His voice was quiet, yet clear. He hurried to Harry’s bedside and trailed his wand up and down Harry’s prone body.

As he grew more awake, so too did the throbbing pain in his chest. Harry looked down and found it wrapped tightly in bandages and the memory of the Heart Eater shattering bone, its taloned hand plunging inside him, made his head swim.

“The creature that attacked you possessed a toxin,” the Healer explained. “It is making your injury difficult to heal, but in my last test of your blood, there were fewer of these toxins. It is a good sign, Mr. Potter. A very good sign.”

His last blood test? How long had he been unconscious?

The second Healer, who was far younger than the first, picked something up from the work table and held it out for Harry.

“Your glasses,” he said, slightly breathless.

Awkwardly, Harry put them on. His hands were also bandaged and Harry remembered them bloody and raw from when he’d crawled through the deep snow to reach the Dome. He was surprised they hadn’t fallen off. The room came into clear focus and Harry knew Voldemort was there without turning to look.

The Healer was still talking.

“… progress is being made, but this toxin is very unusual and highly reactive. We’ll go slowly and monitor —”

“Increase the dosage.”

Ice slipped down Harry’s spine. He refused to look round even as he felt Voldemort approach the bed.

“But my Lord,” the first stumbled, startled, “it is too early to increase —”

“I want him healed, Smethwyck.”

Harry could easily picture the venomous gaze Voldemort bestowed Smethwyck. The wizard paled.

“Of course, my Lord. If you so wish. Pye.”

The younger wizard handed a bottle to Smethwyck and he poured a heaping measure into a glass. It was ruby red and all Harry could think was that it was the same color as Voldemort’s eyes.

“If you will drink this for me,” said Smethwyck. He kept his voice carefully light, but Harry did not miss the tremor in his hand. The message was clear: Drink or he will take it out on me.

Harry did. It was viscus and bitter.

“Go.”

At Voldemort’s command, the Healers packed up their things with great efficiency, but the younger man, Pye, paused just long enough to turn to Harry and say in a voice that shook with emotion, “Welcome back, Mr. Potter.” Briefcase in hand, he hurried after Smethwyck to the door on the far side of the room. A rustle of robes far too close for comfort sounded at Harry’s right and Voldemort finally moved into his line of vision. He strolled around the bed, toward the door where the Healers waited. Words were exchanged, though too quietly for Harry to hear. Seemingly satisfied, Voldemort placed his palm against the door; the wood shimmered slightly and the Healers walked straight through it without it opening. 

_Go_ , Harry pleaded. _Go with them. Go._

But Voldemort faced Harry and walked leisurely back to the bed. From the pocket of his robes, he pulled out his wand. Harry pressed back against the pillows, preparing himself for the worst —

A handsome chair stitched into existence at his bedside. Voldemort sat. For a moment, the man simply stared at Harry as Harry resolutely stared at the shut door.

“Why did you leave the cave?”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

“Did you think I would not return?”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

“I expressly told you —”

“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME SHIT!” Harry exploded.

Voldemort’s expression was cool. “You are angry. That is understandable.”

“ _Understandable?_ ” Harry clutched his broken ribs, the pain from his outburst making his eyes sting. “Go to hell.”

Voldemort’s expression grew cooler. “I do not abide being spoken to in such a manner, but as you are _understandably_ distressed, I will let this one time pass. Next time I shall not be so lenient.” He swished his wand — the yew, Harry noticed, not the Elder Wand — and a tray loaded with food appeared on the bedside table. Harry’s empty stomach lurched. “Eat.”

Harry turned away from the food even as his stomach growled.

Amusement colored Voldemort’s voice.

“Self-starvation is not a winning strategy, Harry.”

Harry ignored him. He’d rather starve than eat anything that came from _Voldemort_.

The mattress dipped and Harry’s attention sprang back to Voldemort, his heart jumping up his throat. Voldemort conjured a knife and picked up a peach from the tray. Harry stilled as Voldemort cut off a slice. He lifted it to Harry’s mouth and Harry jerked his head back. Warning burned in Voldemort’s scarlet eyes.

“ _Open your mouth._ ”

He couldn’t fight Voldemort; he was too weak. Even if he managed to land a punch, it would be like a child’s. Hating himself and hating Voldemort, Harry opened his mouth.

Voldemort placed the slice on his tongue. The explosion of flavor nearly made him blackout. He’d forgotten what food tasted like. He’d forgotten how hungry he was. Voldemort made no comment as he cut another slice, placing it again in his mouth. Harry kept expecting Voldemort’s fingers to touch him, to brush against his lips or slip behind his head to the base of his skull, burying themselves in his hair, but he did not. He continued to feed him, bite by bite, until the peach was gone. With a ping, Voldemort dropped the pit onto the tray.

“That wasn’t too difficult, now was it?” he asked, wiping his hands clean on a napkin. “Shall I continue or do you believe you can feed yourself?”

Harry wondered if it was possible to hate anyone more than he did just then. Delighted, Voldemort lifted the tray and placed it on Harry’s lap, locking him in place. Was every meal going to include Voldemort, sitting and watching? Probably, Harry thought as he speared a forkful of eggs, the heavy bandages making movement difficult.

It didn’t take long before Harry began to feel too ill to continue. He wasn’t twelve anymore, bouncing back from starvation with zealous efficiency. He put down his fork and Voldemort, pleased enough, removed the tray, setting it back on the table. With it gone, Harry felt exposed, as if the tray had been some kind of barrier. A safe guard. But Voldemort did not draw closer. He stood. The half-eaten remnants of Harry’s meal vanished with the barest flick of his wand. He looked down at Harry, an unsettling feverishness in his eyes. Harry looked away first, wondering how many times Voldemort had looked at him like that and he had never known.

* * *

Harry knew he was at Hogwarts and in one of the towers, though he didn’t know which one. The reds and golds were similar to Gryffindor House, but the decor was too sophisticated. Almost royal. He could not muster up the strength to rise out of the bed to look out of a high-arched window to pinpoint his location via Black Lake or Quidditch Pitch or Hagrid’s hut, but he knew it was Hogwarts.

It smelled like Hogwarts. It felt like Hogwarts.

Harry was filled with dread. Reality had sunk in, and it was suffocating. The Phantom — _his_ Phantom — all along had been Voldemort. The presence he’d felt instant kinship to, instant comfort was none other than his parents’ murderer. If Harry had still been a Horcrux, he would have blamed the insanity on that: the shred of soul calling out to its other half, but Harry wasn’t a Horcrux anymore. There was no reason for him to have melded against Voldemort — to have literally melted like butter when Voldemort had held him. Kissed him.

He was sick to his stomach, every memory bringing revulsion and shame. He wanted to curl in on himself; he wanted to block out the feelings until he felt nothing at all, but his battered ribs wouldn’t allow it. He was stuck to lie on his back, gazing out the closest window, not even a cloud or passing bird to help distract him.

**xXx**

Voldemort only half-listened to Rodolphus Lestrange’s report. There were signs that Gawain Robards and the small crew of Aurors who had fled the Ministry in May had joined the Order of the Phoenix. _Good_ , Voldemort thought. Having them all together would make killing them all the swifter.

He fingered the peach’s pit, rolling it between thumb and index, feeling each groove and indent. He could still feel the warm puffs of Harry’s breath against his fingers. Every swallow of Harry’s throat had elicited a pleasure deep in Voldemort’s gut. He’d never seen anything as mesmerizing as Harry. He suspected Harry could do anything — read, walk, lace up his trainers — and his stomach would swoop.

It wouldn’t be long before Harry was healed and when he was … Voldemort grinned. The world was his oyster and Harry the pearl at its center.

Suddenly, he experienced a sharp tug, like a hook behind his left rib. Voldemort straightened in his chair, frowning. He had placed a small, unobtrusive spell upon Harry to alert him if there were any changes in his condition. He had included Smethwyck in the spell, as well, and the wizard rushed into the Great Hall, his youthful assistant at his heels, before Voldemort had even risen from his chair.

“My Lord —”

Voldemort stood, striding past Rodolphus who broke off mid report in confusion. His servants quickly stepped aside as he traveled through the castle, paying their murmurs of “my Lord” no notice as the tug in his chest yanked sharper. They finally entered the South Tower and Smethwyck hurriedly walked through the wooden door the moment Voldemort rested his palm against it, activating entrance.

Screams hit Voldemort’s ears like shrapnel. Harry was beside himself, writhing on the bed, the sheets twisted around his legs, saturated in his sweat. The Healers were at his side at once. Pye grabbed hold of his thrashing legs, trying to keep Harry from hurting himself.

Smethwyck’s wand traveled over him. Terror spread over his face.

“Purge his stomach,” he ordered.

Pye jerked into action, releasing Harry’s legs and diving for the case on the floor. Immobilized, Voldemort watched as Smethwyck tried to get Harry to swallow a murky-colored potion, but Harry was beyond reason, fighting the Healers as if they were trying to kill him.

“Hold him down, Pye!” Smethwyck raged.

His poorly mended ribs would be splintering again under the strain, but Harry was incapable of holding still. He twisted, he clawed and all the while he screamed as if he were being pulled inside out. Somehow the potion made it down his throat and a second later, he was heaving, vomiting over the side of the bed into a basin Pye conjured just in time.

“Good lad,” Smethwyck whispered, gripping Harry’s shaking shoulders. “Good lad.”

It took time, but with each shuddering breath, Harry calmed. They managed to get three more potions down his throat.

Voldemort watched it all silently, frozen in place. Pye remained at Harry’s side, but Smethwyck crossed the room to him.

“The toxin reacted with unexpected severity to the potion. We increased the dosage too quickly. I will continue to refine it, but until I have a solid cure, I must insist that we tread carefully with this treatment.”

“Do whatever you deem best. I misguided you.”

Smethwyck looked taken aback, as if he’d expected Voldemort to fight him.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Voldemort watched as Harry, shaking and pale, tried to refuse the goblet of water Pye was urging him to drink. The bandages covering his chest were once again scarlet. Fury burned inside Voldemort. His impatience had caused this. His desire to have Harry back on his feet with the speed of any magical cure had put his life in jeopardy. He would not risk Harry’s life again.

* * *

Midnight chimed as Voldemort entered the tower. A silence as deep and unbroken as the depths of the sea lay heavy upon the room. Softly, Voldemort made his way across the rugged floor to the bed. The bandages around Harry’s chest were fresh and clean once more.

Harry slept. Sickly pale, hair damp with sweat, thin frame shivering with periodic tremors — but he slept. Voldemort sat on the edge of the bed. For a long while, he was content enough to watch, each breath proving — solidifying — that Harry lived.

A hand, so white that it shined in the dark, hovered above Harry’s face. He placed a fingertip to the boy’s lips. Voldemort ghosted his fingers across them. Before he’d even thought — before he’d even realized that this was why he’d left his chamber for the South Tower — Voldemort had bent down and replaced his fingers with his mouth. Careful to keep his weight off Harry, he pressed closer. Harry’s lips yielded and Voldemort tasted what he’d been longing to taste. He kissed Harry like a starving man. He wanted Harry to return it. He wanted Harry to embrace him, to press up into him, kiss him back with the same desperation as he had in the Drift. But Harry was numb beneath him, limp and immobile, completely unaware.

A small, pained gasp made Voldemort jerk back. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten to be careful, leaning too heavily on Harry’s damaged chest. The potions were potent enough that Harry did not wake. Voldemort grazed his fingertips along the bandages, apologies sprouting on his tongue, but Harry was as oblivious to them as he was to Voldemort’s advances. Asleep, his head lolled to the side, his cheek resting on the pillow. Voldemort wiped the sweat from Harry’s brow, pushing the black, unruly fringe from his forehead, revealing the lightning bolt scar. How far they had both traveled and how far they had both fallen.

Voldemort’s hand moved down Harry’s arm to his wrist. He lifted it and kissed the beating pulse. He understood the value of waiting. He could wait for Harry a little longer.

**xXx**

Hidden beneath the cover of darkness and the dense forest canopy, Alexander Mathis removed the sacks from his prisoners’ heads. Bound and silenced, Lucius and Draco Malfoy struggled, eyes wide with fright.

Alexander squatted before them.

“Have either of you come across a smooth, flat stone with this emblem etched onto its face?”

From the folds of his robe, he held the Deathly Hallows that he always wore around his neck up for them to see.

Lucius and Draco shook their heads. Though he had expected as much, disappointment was still bitter.

“Have either of you,” he asked next, “come across a Cloak of Invisibility that has no match? A Cloak of Invisibility that cannot be harmed or destroyed by spells? A Cloak of Invisibility that has never diminished in its potency no matter its age?”

Again, Lucius shook his head, but Draco did not.

“Have you seen such a cloak, Draco?” Alexander asked. He pointed his wand at the youth, removing the spell that silenced him.

The boy looked nervously at his father.

“If I tell you,” he asked, voice shaking, “will you let us go?”

“Depends on what you have to say,” Alexander replied.

Draco licked his lips. Next to him, his father’s eyes shined with warning, but Draco ignored him.

“Harry Potter had one. He got it when we first started at Hogwarts. There was a rumor that it had been his father’s but I saw it up close in our sixth year. It looked brand new and the best models only last two years.”

“Harry Potter?” Alexander wasn’t even surprised. In fact, he’d been expecting it. Defy a Dark Lord multiple times over? That wasn’t blind luck. “Do you have any idea where this Cloak might be now?”

“With Potter, obviously,” said Draco,” wherever the hell that is. He always had it on him. He was paranoid.”

“Paranoid?”

“He was a lunatic,” said Draco viciously, voice rising. “Following people around under it. Spying —”

“He did this to you?”

“Yes!” said Draco furiously. “I bet that’s why no one’s found him. He ran away! Probably halfway across the globe by now!”

“I see,” said Alexander softly. “Thank you, Draco.”

“Are you …” Draco licked his lips again. His eyes flickered down to Alexander’s wand. “Are you going to let us go?”

Alexander held Draco’s frightened gaze.

“I imagine the Dark Lord will be content enough with one.”

“What?” said Draco blankly.

Lucius fruitlessly struggled against his bonds and Draco’s voice rose in alarm as Alexander lifted his wand.

“No! No, I helped you! I helped you!”

“ _Obliviate!_ ”

Draco slumped against the tree trunk. Lucius fought against his bindings, screaming filth though nothing issued from his mouth, his face blotchy and red. Alexander ignored him. He slipped the bag back over Lucius’ head. Alexander pulled him to his feet and Disapparated, leaving Draco behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think I’ve ever received so many comments on a chapter before. Thank you! They were wonderful and many of them had me laughing.
> 
> If anyone’s curious about what brought about Harry’s coughing up blood episode: Voldemort was right. The nuts which Harry ate were in fact toxic. Slow acting, but toxic all the same. The purple fruit belonging to the highly suspicious tree surrounded by the dead were in fact medicinal and instantly cured Harry. (You notice that he’s no longer coughing up blood. I had to give the guy something positive.)
> 
> I like to think that the spaceship was running research on these two trees. I haven’t given it a huge amount of effort in understanding the Drift, but I like the idea of these two trees being native to the Drift, growing around the hot spring. I like that the strange anomaly attracted a research team and they constructed their ship into a base around them for study. I like to imagine that something went terribly wrong. Perhaps the ship malfunctioned and could not take back off. Perhaps the toxins in the nuts reacted even more severely with the crew than they did with Harry. Or maybe it was the fruit that was toxic to them. Perhaps it was the crew who became the Heart Eaters, transformed and corrupted. Either way, the Heart Eaters have their own brand of poison in their claws and, as the Healers have discovered, it doesn’t like being removed.


	6. Chapter 6

Rain pummeled Grimmauld Place’s windows. Down below, the small courtyard was practically flooded.

“ _Alexander Mathis_ ,” Rabastan sneered as he snatched up a wine glass from the floating tray. “The name reeks of Muggle. He’s probably a Mudblood.”

“You’re just sore he found Lucius before you could,” said Rodolphus.

“Don’t tell me you _like_ him,” said Rabastan, disgusted.

From her place by the window, Bellatrix glanced at her husband.

“Not in the slightest,” Rodolphus replied, “but he follows through and that’s something the Dark Lord values.”

“Prancing about with Grindelwald’s sign.” Rabastan spat into the fireplace. “Someone should strangle him with it.”

“I imagine the Dark Lord will sooner or later,” said Rodolphus, unconcerned.

“Are you so sure about that?” Rabastan’s eyes shifted to Bellatrix. “Mathis seems to be his favorite of late.”

“He has every reason to be,” said Rodolphus, settling more comfortably in his armchair. “Who was the last Order of Phoenix member _you_ delivered to the Dark Lord?”

“But _we_ are his favorites!” Rabastan seethed, slamming his glass back onto the tray. “We went to Azkaban for him! And who gets private audience? Mathis! Who gets the Deathstick? Mathis!”

“The Dark Lord hardly gives any private audiences these days,” Rodolphus countered and the side of Bellatrix’s mouth ticked. “And what do you care about that wand?” He chuckled. “The Dark Lord says it’s no more than a charlatan’s baton.” 

“We all saw what it could do when Dumbledore was its master.”

“Brother, are you suggesting that Dumbledore was stronger than our Lord?”

“Of course not!” Rabastan sputtered, reddening beneath his beard. “But you cannot deny that handing over such a wand —”

“It may have lost its powers,” said Rookwood, who had been mute during the entire conversation, but he did not sound convinced.

“I haven’t even seen Mathis wield the Deathstick,” said Rodolphus. “Have you, Rabastan?”

“No,” Rabastan gritted, “but it still doesn’t change —”

“It sounds to me that you are questioning our Lords orders,” said Rodolphus.

“I am _concerned_.”

“So am I,” said Rookwood as Rodolphus rolled his eyes. “You know how he had a team of Unspeakables design a devise to travel the stars? He took it from them before they had even completed it and sent them on their way. He was obsessed with it for months, and now, without any possible reason that I can think of, he scraps the entire project.”

Rodolphus turned his gaze upon Rabastan. “I assume you will blame Mathis for this as well?”

“Why not?” said Rabastan hotly. “Ever since he arrived, the Dark Lord has not been himself. He hardly listened to Umbridge’s report about Potter’s whereabouts.”

“That’s not a surprise,” said Rodolphus with an amused grin. “Umbridge’s reports get wilder by the day. Maybe that’s why those Unspeakables were at work. Potter’s on the moon.”

No one joined him in his laughter.

Rabastan’s face darkened. “I think we should get rid of him.”

“Who?” Rodolphus flicked a tear of merriment from his eye. “Mathis? You wish to murder him?”

“Against the four of us, he wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Rodolphus shook his head, laughing again. He stood.

“Brother, I won’t stop you, but I also won’t be a part of it. I value my neck too much for that.”

Rabastan looked furious, but Rodolphus lifted his whiskey glass in a cheerful salute and sauntered out of the drawing room. At once, Rabastan turned to Bellatrix.

“You feel just as I do.”

“Yes,” said Bellatrix shortly.

“Then help us! We can get rid of him! You know the Dark Lord best. _Mathis is taking our place_.”

The Dark Lord had indeed been distant, more so than ever before. Since their night together, he had not spared her a glance. She feared she’d done something wrong. She feared she had upset him. And it was that fear that made her choose caution over action.

“Rodolphus is right. Leave Mathis be.”

“But Bella!”

“You heard me!” Bellatrix snapped. “Mathis is too close to the Dark Lord. It would be suicidal to attack him, but he will make a mistake,” she breathed, eyes flashing. “He will anger the Dark Lord, mark my words, and when he does we will be the ones to tie the noose around his neck.”

**xXx**

Harry opened his eyes. He was in the same bed as before, in the same tower, and sitting next to him …

Voldemort’s eyes burned bright, like molten lava.

Without a word, without warning, he moved, bending over Harry and capturing his lips. It was just the same kiss that had swept him away in the Drift, the same kiss that had ensnared his senses, the same kiss that he’d replayed when the Phantom left. The same teeth. The same tongue.

Voldemort smiled.

“ _Idiot boy._ ”

He drew back his arm and a knife glinted in his hand. His eyes gleamed. His smile was vicious. Harry stared like a deer caught in the headlights, and the knife plunged downward, straight into his chest —

Harry gasped. His eyes flew open. The tower was dim with predawn light and empty. Mercifully empty. He clutched his chest, but the bandages were clean and unmarked. Heart racing, his head fell back against the pillow. It had been a dream. Just a dream.

But now that he was awake, Harry found it impossible to go back to sleep. What was Voldemort going to do with him? Dread pooled in his gut. As the sunlight steadily brightened the room, his mind played a series of scenarios, each worse than the last.

He had to escape.

Grimacing, he sat up. His entire body felt pricked and raw, tender and sore. He felt ill and weak – so unbearably weak – but he shoved the discomfort aside. His heavily bandaged fingers fumbled with his glasses. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Tentatively he put weight on his feet. He could stand.

But not well.

Harry lurched to the nearest window and just the five steps it took had him clutching his ribs. He was nauseous and light headed. His legs began to shake. Clutching the windowsill, Harry glared through the paneled glass. To the far right was the Quidditch Pitch and the greenhouses were in clear view. The sight of them was gasoline to an engine. He limped across the room to another window — there was Hagrid’s Hut and the Whomping Willow and the Black Lake. Harry realized there were tears in his eyes.

The door of Hagrid’s hut swung open and Harry’s heart jumped, but it was not Hagrid who emerged. It was Macnair. Carrying the heavy axe he’d brought for Buckbeak’s trial, he headed across the lawn.

The sight shouldn’t have been a surprise — of course Hagrid wouldn’t still be here — but Harry was winded, as if punched in the gut.

“Why are you up?”

Harry whipped around. Voldemort and the Healers had arrived. The door didn’t need to open and close for them to enter and Harry suspected that if he tried to turn the knob it wouldn’t budge. He wondered whether the windows would swing open. He doubted it.

“My Lord, this is excellent,” said the oldest Healer — Smethwyck, Harry believed his name was. He hurried to Harry and set down his case. “I was actually going to get Mr. Potter out of bed today. A short walk around the tower is important for regaining strength.”

Voldemort’s glare deepened and the younger Healer quickly scurried after Smethwyck. With Smethwyck’s encouragement, Harry made it to a couch that was set to one side of the chamber, facing a fireplace. Relieved, Harry collapsed onto it. He’d never felt more exhausted in his life.

Smethwyck ran his tests, checking Harry’s pulse and temperature, drawing a small vial of blood and inspecting it under a bulky microscope that was covered in knobs. He nodded to Pye and the Healer poured a much smaller measure of the same potion they’d given Harry before. All the while Voldemort stood by the door and watched.

“Drink plenty of fluids and rest. You _must_ rest,” Smethwyck insisted, who seemed to know that Harry was only half listening, distracted by the black, silent presence at the door. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

Smethwyck’s equipment floated back into his case and the lid closed with a tap of his wand. The Healers departed and, to Harry’s complete surprise, so did Voldemort. Taken aback, Harry stared at the door. He had expected Voldemort to stay as he had before. He had expected the man to loom over him, to threaten him, to play with him as a cat does to a mouse, but he’d left without a word.

Instead of being relieved from the reprieve, Harry was frightened. If Voldemort was in the tower with him that meant Voldemort couldn’t be somewhere else. But now he could be off to anywhere, doing anything — killing, torturing. Harry was back on his feet. He tripped over the rug, lunging for the door. He yanked the handle, but as he’d expected, it was locked. He pounded his fist on the wood and hissed in pain as his frostbitten hand made contact.

“Voldemort,” Harry shouted. “VOLDEMORT!”

“Yes?”

Harry nearly fell over backwards. He scrambled away from the door as Voldemort’s upper body slipped through like a ghost.

“Yes?” he repeated, stepping fully through the door.

Harry’s mouth was dry. His retreating steps halted as he bumped into the back of the couch. He gripped it for stability.

“Where are you going?”

“Work,” Voldemort replied, amusement coloring his voice. “I do run a country.”

Anger burned inside Harry but he tamped it down.

“Don’t go.”

Voldemort tilted his head. “You wish for me to stay?”

“Yes,” Harry gritted.

Voldemort’s smile was all teeth. In two long strides, he was before Harry, locking him in place.

Harry stopped breathing.

“There was a time not so long ago when you said those words and meant them. _Don’t go._ Do you remember that?”

Of course Harry remembered. He remembered every second like it was seared into his brain. Every touch. Every kiss.

Voldemort suddenly frowned. “You’re shivering.”

With a flick of his wand, a dressing gown Harry had not noticed drifted to them. Voldemort pulled it around his shoulders. Harry couldn’t meet his eyes. It was easier — far easier — to stare at the man’s chest, but Voldemort took Harry’s chin in his fingers and the contact was an electric shock; Harry’s eyes flicked back up, his heart pumping. He wanted to run. Run and run and run and —

He swallowed, steeling himself. Nothing had changed even though everything had. He had to stop Voldemort. He had to kill him and until he was strong enough to do that, he had to keep everyone safe.

“Don’t go,” Harry whispered again.

“But Harry, I must,” Voldemort answered. “You tempt me too much.”

He stepped away and Harry felt as if a cord had been severed. Voldemort pointed his wand at the fireplace and it burst into life, warming the tower. A tray of food popped into existence on a side table.

“Do not waste your energy trying to escape.” He turned at the door, bestowing Harry a winning smile. “You can’t.”

* * *

Harry couldn’t say whether the potion they gave him was a sedative or whether he was just that tired. He suspected the latter as sleep in the Drift had been practically nonexistent. Anxious and worried though he was, his limbs grew wood-like and his eyes heavy. When next he woke, the tower glowed with sunshine, just as it had been when he’d drifted off, but he knew time had passed. His skin was fresh, as if recently cleaned; the bandages around his hands were gone, his fingers and palms healed, though his ribs remained tightly wrapped; the water jug by the bed now held chilled pumpkin juice and a new array of fruit and sandwiches sat upon the silver tray along with …

Harry narrowed his eyes. He rose up onto his elbows. On the bedside table sat a neat stack of books and on the very top was a wizarding wireless. They had not been there before. Harry stared at the collection, aware that they could have only come from Voldemort which was both ridiculous and thoroughly out of character. But then again, everything Voldemort had done in the Drift had been out of character — kissing him, soothing him, rubbing the cold and soreness from his body. How much of that had been an act? Was in fact all of this — the Healers, the care — an act? Was Voldemort building him back up so he could chop him down before an audience of Death Eaters? Would Harry’s murder be broadcast on that very same wireless?

_You tempt me too much._

Harry could still feel Voldemort’s heated gaze. He shook it off and buried himself beneath the voluminous covers, but even there, with his tower blocked from view, he could not block the memories. They danced around him, a demonic troop: Voldemort pressing him against a cave wall, kissing him, and Harry, kissing back …

He could not blame potions or spells. He could not even blame a Horcrux. He half wished he still was one so he could scream, _it wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!_

Voldemort may have played him, may _still_ be playing him, but who had made the first move? Who had harbored feelings for days on end that had burned hot, building until they inflamed?

_Harry! Harry! It was Harry!_ the troop chanted.

_I was alone. I was starving. I wasn’t thinking straight._

But you wanted him all the same; you loved him.

And that truth was the hardest truth to hold.

* * *

Eventually the silence grew too heavy and Harry reemerged from under the blankets. He took the wireless from the stack and turned the dials. What had the world become since Voldemort’s victory? He was frightened to find out, but he needed to know. He had to know what had happened to the others … Harry flipped from station to station, listening for only a few moments before clicking to the next.

“Longbottom —”

Harry nearly dropped the wireless.

“… wanted for crimes against our Lord,” a sickeningly sweet voice recited through the wireless. “Kingsley Shacklebolt, wanted for crimes against our Lord …”

Joy burst from Harry, overpowering the revulsion of Umbridge. Neville was alive! And Kingsley! Harry listened, heart thumping, as the list continued. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Aurors, whose names Harry didn’t recognize, Professor Flitwick, Hagrid, Ron, Hermione —

Harry punched the air but then doubled up, clutching his broken ribs. Alive. They were _alive_. Harry was so lost in elation that he missed the end of Umbridge’s announcement. The scheduled program had returned, but Harry barely took in the two bubbly witches discussing treatments for tooth rot in mandrakes. _Alive_. He couldn’t believe it.

He left the wireless on, hoping for Umbridge to return, but she didn’t. Not even during commercial breaks. He grew restless and agitated with pent up energy. He clicked it off on a sports wizard’s rant (“If the Cannons have any hopes for this year’s season then they have to learn to hold onto the quaffle for longer than five seconds!”) and made to rise from the bed. His eyes fell upon the stack of books; he hesitated for a split second, before taking the top one. _Magical Exploration Volume One_ by Icarus Fay. Harry grimaced. This was the sort of thing Hermione would have loved. He tucked it under one arm anyway and laboriously traveled the short distance to the couch. Wincing, he settled on the cushions.

He opened the book, but all too soon his mind wandered back to Umbridge’s wanted list. Ginny and Luna and George had not been on it. Nor Seamus or Dean or McGonagall. So many people had been at the battle. What had happened to them after Harry spiraled to the Drift? Had they fled? Had they been captured? Had they been killed?

_They’re fine_ , Harry told himself firmly. _They’re okay._

If Ron and Hermione and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Hagrid were still alive, then the others had to be too.

“It’s nice to see you awake again.”

Harry flinched. Soundlessly, Voldemort had returned.

“It does happen,” Harry replied.

Voldemort’s lips twitched, amused, at Harry’s dry words.

“Quite. After five days.”

Harry stared. Surely he was lying. He couldn’t have been asleep that long. Voldemort strode to him and removed a small vial from his pocket, containing the same potion Smethwyck had been giving him. Towering over him, blocking Harry’s escape, Voldemort held the potion out for him to take.

“Where are the Healers?” Harry asked, buying for time.

“I am as capable as Smethwyck to give you your potion. Drink.”

Harry took the vial and swallowed its contents in one go. The quicker he was healed, the quicker he’d get out of here.

“You have not eaten,” Voldemort observed, spotting the untouched tray by the bed. He made it float to them; it settled on the coffee table with a gentle clink. Voldemort stood, watching, waiting, and when Harry made no move to serve himself, he said pleasantly, “Shall I feed you again?”

A furious blush spread over Harry’s cheeks. He snatched up an apple and took a bite. Voldemort laughed and Harry wanted to chunk it at his stupid —

Voldemort sat. Instantly, Harry bent his knees, creating as much separation on the couch as he could, but with that same amused expression, Voldemort took hold of one of his feet, pulled it into his lap and rubbed the ankle.

For a heartbeat, Harry was too stunned to react and then he tried to jerk away, but Voldemort’s fingers wrapped securely around his foot, keeping him in place. His thumb dug into the sole, kneading the arch, the heel; fingers slid through the spaces between his toes.

“What interests you?”

Harry responded a fraction too slowly, so distracted by the electric bolts that Voldemort’s ministrations elicited. The apple fell from his fingers, rolling across the floor as he white-knuckled the couch. He kept his other leg bent rigid in an attempt to shield the rest of himself from Voldemort.

“What?” The word came out as a gasp as Voldemort’s nail ran up the underside of his foot.

The gleam in Voldemort’s eyes intensified. He released the foot, laying the leg across his lap, and took the other, beginning the same procedure. At once, Harry shifted the book downward, covering himself. If Voldemort took any notice of the action, he made no sign.

“Your interests,” Voldemort repeated. “What do you enjoy doing?”

Harry stared, mind blank.

Voldemort dug more insistently into his skin, flexing the ball of his foot and Harry blurted, “Quidditch.”

“Quidditch?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, trying very hard to ignore how every touch sent sparks straight to his —

“You played on the Gryffindor team?” Voldemort spoke almost as if he were remembering some long-ago fact, as if someone had once fleetingly mentioned Harry’s interest in the sport and had forgotten. “Which position?”

“Seeker,” Harry grunted.

“Anything else?”

Where was this conversation even going? It wasn’t as if Voldemort actually cared.

Harry shook his head.

“You’re eighteen,” Voldemort pointed out. “You must have more interests than that.”

“Trying to stay alive took up most of my time.”

The words left him in an angry rush. Voldemort’s fingers stilled for a moment and then they moved behind his ankle, kneading the tendons.

“Are you enjoying it?” Voldemort asked and Harry turned red. “The book?” he clarified, his eyes darting down to the tome resting on his lap.

“It’s fine,” Harry replied shortly. “It’s not Quidditch,” he added.

Voldemort looked close to laughter. He stood. Harry’s legs retracted. He held his breath, expecting Voldemort to do something else, but he merely took Harry in, as if memorizing him, as if swallowing him whole. Did vampires look as hungry?

“I will be away for a few days. I won’t bore you with the details.” His eyes drifted to Harry’s lap where the book lay and the smile sharpened. “Enjoy your reading.”

Harry waited until Voldemort’s robes had swished out of sight through the door before lifting the book from his lap. A wet patch dampened the fabric of his pajama bottoms. Shame exploded in Harry’s chest. He threw the book. It smashed into the jug of juice, knocking it off the table with a crash.

Had he seen? Had he known?

Harry buried his head against his knees. Who was he kidding? Of course Voldemort knew.

* * *

Voldemort was gone for three days and Harry grew nervous. The wireless stayed on constantly and unlike a normal listener, the moment a program paused for advertisers, instead of turning the volume down, Harry turned it up, hoping to catch an announcement or another updated wanted list. Though Voldemort was mentioned about fifteen times a day, none of it was worth hearing, just propaganda, fear-mongering and urging the population to “turn in dangerous Muggles and Mudbloods to authorities in order to protect the Wizarding race.” Harry could only stomach so much before turning the wireless back down. He was actually surprised at how _normal_ the outside world appeared with Quidditch matches and concert tickets and _Baking with Margery_. Every program, every broadcaster, acted as if life was perfectly lovely and he suspected the same would be true for the Daily Prophet, but then, how was that any different from last year when the only news station telling the truth had been forced to air in secret? He wondered if Potterwatch continued. He hoped it did.

“Darling, if your crusts turn out soggier than a moldy toadstool, you’ve tuned in just in time! Get those wands at the ready and join me in the kitchen! _It’s Baking with Margery!_ ”

Harry clicked down the volume on a cheerful jingle.

* * *

Without the Dark Lord’s frigid gaze watching over them, the two Healers were far more talkative, Augustus Pye even going so far as to play gobstones with Harry as Smethwyck tested his blood for the toxin the Heart Eater had left behind.

Harry, who’d thought their names sounded familiar, learned they had been the two on duty when Mr. Weasley had been bitten by Nagini in his fifth year. Hippocrates Smethwyck and Augustus Pye were welcome company but his hope that they could help him escape the tower was dashed to pieces one rainy afternoon.

“I know you probably can’t get me out,” said Harry, “but if you could get word to a few friends of mine …”

Before he’d even finished speaking, Harry knew it was no good. Smethwyck’s face became grave and Pye grew somber.

“I am sorry, Mr. Potter,” said Smethwyck. “We wish to help you. You have no idea how much we want to get you from here, but we can’t. We were forced to take Unbreakable Vows in order to treat you. I assume you understand how the Vow works?”

Throat tight, Harry nodded.

“We cannot so much as write your name on a strip of parchment. We cannot speak it outside this tower room. We cannot even share a memory in a Pensieve of our encounters with you.”

“I will do it!” Pye exploded suddenly. He shot to his feet, jostling the table and causing the marbles to roll. “Tell me who to go to, Mr. Potter!”

“Augustus,” Smethwyck sighed, rubbing his temple.

“We have to help!” said Pye furiously.

“No,” said Harry sharply. “I won’t have your death on my conscious. Enough are there already.”

Pale, Pye sank back into his chair and stared morosely at the gobstone board.

“And you have helped me,” said Harry. “Without either of you I would be dead.”

“It is an honor to assist you,” said Smethwyck. “We wish we could do more. If people knew you were alive … you have no idea the hope you’d bring.”

Though Smethwyck and Pye were banned from speaking Harry’s name to outsiders, they were allowed to pass information to Harry and he learned that the Order of the Phoenix had gone underground, joining forces with Ministry officials and Aurors who’d been on the run since Voldemort’s take over. The Resistance was not going well. Azkaban was packed floor to ceiling. It was dangerous on the streets with dementors and snatchers running amok. Neighboring governments were quietly aiding, but fear of bringing Voldemort’s wrath to their boarders kept them cautious.

**xXx**

Voldemort entered the tower to find Harry asleep, curled on his side on the couch before the crackling fire. Each report from Smethwyck spoke of improvement, and though he believed the Healer, Voldemort had to see Harry for himself. Azkaban was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated and he knew he’d be gone from Hogwarts for a week, if not more. Such a stretch of time without seeing Harry … Voldemort had crippled under the strain, returning to Hogwarts just for a moment, just to drink him in.

He crossed the rug and settled on the couch. Harry, still asleep, shifted, curling up a bit more. Voldemort ran his fingers through his hair, waking him.

Harry stiffened instantly.

“You’re back.”

“Only for a short time. I will need to return.”

Harry looked like he wanted to ask where he had been and where he was returning to, but he bit back the questions. Harry sat up and the transition made him close enough to kiss. From the sudden color in his cheeks, Voldemort knew Harry had followed the exact same train of thought.

Grinning, Voldemort stood.

“Your exercises.” He held out his hands.

Harry stared at him stupidly. “You don’t have to —”

Voldemort took Harry’s hands and pulled him to his feet. Harry wobbled, his fingers gripping Voldemort’s tightly, but he quickly steadied himself. Hands trapped in his, Voldemort stepped backward, making Harry follow. They passed the bed, traveling all the way to the East facing windows.

Harry’s legs gave out and he collapsed against Voldemort’s chest.

“Excellent, Harry,” Voldemort praised.

Harry’s breath was short and quick, as if he’d run across the tower rather than barely walked.

“I hate this.”

“You’ve improved a great deal,” Voldemort reminded him. “Once the toxins are removed —”

A sound of exasperation burst from Harry. He pushed away from Voldemort, only to lean against a window.

“ _Stop being nice._ ”

Voldemort studied him. “How would you like me to be?”

Harry’s face was still beautifully flushed and it made Voldemort’s blood thrum. Ignoring Harry’s injuries, ignoring Smethwyck’s warnings, Voldemort grabbed Harry, pulling him flush.

“You didn’t mind my kindness in the Drift.”

Harry fought against him. “ _I don’t want —_ ”

“You don’t want my kindness? Are you sure?”

“I don’t!” With more strength than Voldemort thought he had, Harry succeeded in ripping an arm free. He swung at Voldemort and they grappled, but again, Voldemort gained control. He pushed him against the stone wall, hands pinned.

“Liar.”

Harry inhaled sharply as Voldemort kissed his neck. He messaged the delicate skin with tongue and teeth and Harry’s struggles shifted into something closer to writhing. He sucked harder and a strangled half gasp left Harry’s lips —

Voldemort released him and took an abrupt step back. Caught off guard, Harry staggered, nearly dropping to the floor on weakened knees.

Voldemort grinned, delighting in the flaming red of Harry’s cheeks; the rapid speed of his breath; the dilation of his eyes; the darkening bruise on his neck. He laughed.

“ _Liar._ ” 

**xXx**

Voldemort left. Smirking and smug and full of victory, he left. Harry’s legs gave out and he slid to the floor. He touched his neck and it was hot to the touch. Hot and slick with saliva.

Days passed and Voldemort did not return. The absence was a festering boil that Harry could not lance. He’d close his eyes and feel Voldemort’s mouth against his skin and his stomach would clench.

_How would you like me to be?_

Harry didn’t know.

“A-hem … Mr. Potter?”

Harry jerked back to his senses. Once more he and Augustus Pye were playing gobstones as Smethwyck drew Harry’s daily measure of blood.

“Sorry,” Harry apologized and quickly rolled the dice. He scooped up three of Pye’s stones.

A flash of gold zoomed across the room, followed by a high-pitched twittering: Harry’s newest gift fluttered onto his shoulder and began to peck at his dressing gown. Harry hadn’t believed his eyes when he’d woken to find the birdcage and the snidget darting inside it. He didn’t know if the snidget was an apology or a joke or something else entirely. 

Smethwyck withdrew the needle from Harry’s arm and pressed a bandage to the tiny mark. The toxins the Heart Eater had poisoned his body with made magical healing extremely difficult and extremely slow. Though they had managed to cure his hands of frostbite, the Healers had both emphatically refrained from excessive magical treatments. ( _“We don’t want another episode.”)_ Neither did Harry. He had not forgotten the horrific pain that had torn through him, but finally — finally — the constant aches and exhaustion had lessened. He no longer felt full of needles; he could walk about his tower without aid. He felt as close to normal as he could while still having broken ribs.

“Keep a pressure on that, please,” said Smethwyck, but Harry had already pressed his forefinger against the bandage. He had lost count of how many times Smethwyck had drawn his blood, and Harry was growing worried that the toxins would never leave him and he would have to wait for his ribs to heal the normal way. Smethwyck placed the blood sample beneath his strange microscope and Pye rolled the dice for his turn. Harry lost a point and one of the gobstones squirted an acrid smelling liquid at him. Alarmed, the snidget took off in a whirlwind of golden feathers.

Smethwyck straightened in his seat. “Mr. Potter … I do believe you are healed!”

“What?” said Harry, pausing in wiping off the front of his dressing gown.

Smethwyck’s eyes were pressed firmly against the microscope. “Your blood is clear … Augustus, look at this!”

Pye quickly rose from his seat and peered into the microscope.

“Healer Semthwyk, we’ve done it!”

“Which means …” Smethwyck took hold of his wand, but Pye quickly interjected, “May I, Healer Smethwyck?”

Smethwyck lowered his wand. “Yes, indeed, Healer Pye.”

Pye carefully trained his wand at Harry’s chest. With a complicated twirl of his wrist, Harry’s chest grew very warm and then very cold.

“Superbly done, Augustus,” said Smethwyck.

Harry shouldered off his dressing gown and unwound the bandages from his chest. He took a deep breath and his lungs expanded fully without pain. The deep gashes the Heart Eater had left were gone. He grinned. “That’s loads better.”

The Healers beamed, but all too soon, the happy moment passed.

“Come, Augustus,” said Smethwyck. “The Dark Lord will be expecting our report.”

As Pye packed away the gobstones and their equipment, Harry rose and shook Smethwyck’s hand and then Pye’s.

“I owe you my life.”

A saddened expression took over Smethwyck’s face.

“In truth, Mr. Potter, it is to the Dark Lord the debt is owed. He brought back one of the creatures that attacked you. I was able to extract enough venom from its claws to create the potion that healed you. Without it, there would have been very little I could have done.” He took Harry’s hand in both of his. “Please be careful.”

Unable to speak, Harry nodded. His prison of snow had been replaced with a castle tower and though there was warmth and food, danger remained.

_How would you like me to be?_

As he watched the Healers step through the sealed door for the last time, Harry braced himself for what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Heart Eater in question is dead. Voldemort killed all of them during the attack.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry woke next morning to a stranger sight than the snidget. A large stack of pinstriped boxes rested at the foot of his bed. He sat up, put on his glasses, and took the nearest one. Half expecting a severed head, Harry cautiously lifted the lid. His eyes widened.

Folded in a wrapping of thin tissue were a set of robes. _Nice_ robes.

He opened another and another and found button-down shirts, sweaters, waistcoats, trousers, shoes. He had the feeling that they’d fit him perfectly, as if he himself had strolled into a tailor’s shop. He stared at the heap of boxes and felt strangled. Books, a wireless, a snidget, and now more clothing than he’d ever owned in his life.

He didn’t want any of this. He wished he was back in the Drift. He shoved the boxes off the bed. The loud thumps woke the snidget and it zoomed from its cage, twittering sharply. It circled Harry at dizzying speed, making him wonder if Voldemort had actually given him the bird to drive him mad.

“Hey,” he said to it, wincing at its high pitched chirping. “Calm down!”

Harry reached for the bird, but it dodged his fingers, spiraling down to the mountain of boxes. It pecked at a sleeve and Harry spotted a letter in the mess. He retrieved it and slipped a finger beneath the seal.

_Wear the green and silver._

Harry iced over and then ignited into a blistering rage. The note crumpled in his fist. He leaned over the side of the bed and groped through the boxes. The snidget took flight again. Hovering upside down, it watched Harry toss clothing aside as he searched for the plainest, dullest outfit of the lot.

Nothing was plain. Nothing was dull. Harry, who knew very little about fashion, knew instantly that this wardrobe was worth a hefty sum of gold. In the end, he chose a pair of dark brown slacks and a tan over shirt. The option to remain in his pajama bottoms and dressing gown crossed his mind, just to smite Voldemort, but such little clothing was too vulnerable. He pulled a brown sweater over his head, delighting in the monochrome and pointedly ignored how soft the fabric was against his skin.

He left the rest in a heap on the floor.

* * *

He expected Voldemort any second, but breakfast and lunch came and went without the man’s presence. Too tense to relax, Harry could not focus. Books were picked up and discarded; he paced his tower, traveling from window to window, the snidget zipping after him. He clicked through the radio.

At least in the Drift he’d had something to do, as in _survive_. As depressing, as monotonous, as lonely as it had been, at least he’d had a purpose. But what was the purpose of this? What did Voldemort expect from him?

_You know exactly what he wants._

Sick to his stomach, Harry hoisted himself off the couch for the umpteenth time and paced the tower yet again. It was not so much a question of _what_ but a question of _when_ , the encounter against the wall was proof of that.

Harry didn’t have a wand and he knew Voldemort would keep it that way, but he could use a different weapon … Harry’s eyes drifted to the silver tray where his meals always appeared, just as they did on the golden plates and platters in the Great Hall. The knife and fork had vanished hours ago, along with the remnants of his lunch, but come dinner Harry would keep the knife. He doubted he’d do much damage, but at least he wouldn’t be defenseless.

The clock on the wall counted the hours; the sun dipped down beneath the Forbidden Forest and the lamps in his tower brightened as the windows darkened. Harry sat at the foot of his bed, facing the door, poised for flight or fight, poised as if he were set on a spring, ready to be released. And just before the clock struck seven, Voldemort appeared, stepping through the sealed door. Immediately, a frown furrowed his smooth brow.

“I told you to wear the green and silver.”

Taunt as a bow string, Harry didn’t blink, watching Voldemort like a hawk.

“I didn’t want to.”

He tensed even more as Voldemort pulled his wand from his robes. His eyes traveled over the heap of clothing and crumpled boxes. With a flick, up from the mess rose a pale green shirt, a dark green and silver vest and matching slim, trousers.

“Put them on.”

“No.”

“I will dress you myself, if need be.”

“And I’ll claw your eyes out.”

Voldemort looked mildly surprised. “Such hostility.” He flicked his wand again and before Harry could move or speak, his clothing transformed. The brown slacks, the brown sweater, the tan shirt, were replaced with the green and silver. Another flick and the clothing on the floor zoomed into the wardrobe. A fourth flick and the snidget was unceremoniously plucked from its flight pattern with a startled squawk and deposited in its cage, a cloth draping over it. Voldemort’s eyes raked over Harry. “Much better.”

Harry sprang to his feet, furious.

“I was delighted to hear Smethwyck’s news,” said Voldemort. The small, circular table where Harry had played gobstones with Pye transformed with a lazy swish. It grew and elongated, silverware and glassware and candles popping into existence. Immediately, dinner was served, filling Harry’s tower with the aroma of roast lamb and buttered rolls. Voldemort filled a goblet of wine from a decanter. “I apologize for the late return; Azkaban demanded my attention.”

“Why?” Harry asked at once. There had been no news about Azkaban on the wireless.

Voldemort crossed the room to him and Harry backed up, determined to keep a safe distance between them.

“The dementors grow restless,” Voldemort answered. “Usually I am content with that. A few extra kisses helps open up space. Drink.”

He held out the goblet for Harry to take, but Harry didn’t.

“ _Usually_ you’re content?” Harry asked, heart racing. “Why aren’t you now?”

“Because there are a few prisoners I can still use.”

“Who are they?” Harry demanded.

“I told you to drink.”

Harry took the crystal goblet from Voldemort’s hand and threw it with all his might across the room. It exploded against the wall, leaving a wide red splatter that looked far too much like blood.

“I’m not playing your games!”

Voldemort’s voice was expressionless. “Games?”

“I don’t understand why you’re even trying because it won’t change anything,” Harry roared. “I don’t want you! I will never want you!”

“Do stop shouting,” said Voldemort coldly. “It is unbecoming.”

“Unbecoming?” said Harry in disbelief. “ _Unbecoming?_ ”

“You’re acting like a child. Now come.” Voldemort turned away from him and drew back a chair from the table. “Eat.”

“Why are you doing this?” Harry felt like he was close to losing his mind. “Why are you acting like you’re —”

“Like I’m what?” Voldemort asked dangerously and when Harry could not bring himself to continue, he stepped closer. “Like _what_ , Harry? Do you expect a monster? Would that be easier to fight? If I were monstrous would that make it easier for you to ignore your feelings?”

Harry’s throat closed up. He stumbled back as Voldemort stalked him.

“I can force feed you Amortentia,” Voldemort hissed, eyes boring into Harry. “I can strip you bare and take you whenever I like. Would you rather that? Would you rather rape over admitting the truth?”

Harry couldn’t speak. He bumped into a wall.

Voldemort barred down upon him.

“ _Would you rather that?_ ”

“No,” Harry whispered.

Voldemort’s harshness softened. He took Harry’s hand and Harry fought against the urge to snatch it back.

“I know this is difficult.” Voldemort rubbed his thumb across Harry’s knuckles. “I kept my identity from you. I know it will take time before I have regained the trust you had for me, but there are no more secrets between us now. We can begin anew.”

Harry did not reply, but Voldemort didn’t seem to need him to. He let himself be led to the table. He ate his meal as Voldemort sat across from him, watching Harry as if he were a fascinating television program. Uncomfortable with the unrelenting staring, Harry said, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I don’t need to,” Voldemort answered. He directed the wine to tip into Harry’s glass with the point of his wand, though Harry had hardly drunk. “Nor do I need slumber. I had to drink sleeping potions in order to visit you.”

Harry was chilled, realizing that there was nothing to stop Voldemort from entering his tower while he slept. Hands shaking, he returned to his chops, purposefully eating as slowly as possible, but the end of the meal still came and Harry was so sick with nerves that he thought he might actually vomit. Voldemort stood, walked around the table, and offered Harry his hand again.

“I have something to show you.”

Harry wanted to knock Voldemort’s hand away, but was frightened of what would happen if he did. To compromise, he ignored it, rising to his feet on his own. Voldemort merely looked amused. He strode to the sealed door and Harry stared. When he did not follow, Voldemort looked back at him with an expectant expression.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked.

“You’ll see.”

Mouth dry, Harry joined him at the door.

“Place your hand against the wood.”

Harry did and Voldemort tapped his wand against the grain. The door shimmered silver and Harry’s hand slipped through. Heart leaping, he stepped forward before Voldemort could stop him. His mouth fell open. He did not stand in a circular stairwell, as he’d expected, but a lush, vibrant garden, illuminated with softly glowing lanterns, and fairy lights.

“What …”

“Do you like it?” Voldemort asked. He’d followed. The sealed door stood behind him.

“I — what?” said Harry in confusion.

“It’s yours,” Voldemort told him. He was actually smiling. “I admit Azkaban did not take up _all_ my time. You can come here as often as you like. The door will let you pass.”

Harry gaped at him. He moved past Voldemort, walking back through the door and reentering the tower. He stared out the nearest window at Hagrid’s hut far below, vertigo making his head spin. He rushed back through the door, returning to the outside, the night air heavy with impending storms. Harry couldn’t fathom the magic Voldemort had used. If this was on the Hogwarts grounds, it was unrecognizable.

Again, Voldemort stepped close. “Do you like it?”

Harry’s heart was in his throat. He’d thought he’d never be outside again, trapped forever in that tower and even though warning bells rang shrill in his ears that this was a trap, a seduction, a lure, he couldn’t help but feel grateful. Rain began to fall, masking the tears that had escaped his eyes.

Voldemort took his silence as affirmation.

“Come.”

Harry didn’t want to return to the tower, but Voldemort had taken his hand again, drawing him back inside.

* * *

Harry did not expect to be able to escape through the garden, but he still inspected every nook and cranny the next morning. High walls surrounded it. Harry attempted to climb them, but they were too smooth and too tall. Even the snidget could not fly up and over them, something seeming to impede its progress no matter how hard it flapped its wings. Harry shouted, but no one answered him. He expected it was charmed to be invisible and silent to passersby. He hoisted himself into a large maple tree. Its towering branches stretched to a wall’s edge. If he swung he just might manage to grab onto it. He wanted to know what would happen if he did.

Leaves rustled as he climbed higher. He inched his way along a creaking branch.

From beneath him, something large rushed up through the branches. Harry cried out in alarm as something enormous and green shot up at him; he slipped on the branch, but the thing wrapped thick tentacle-like ropes around his torso, halting his fall. Harry struggled in its hold, punching at the tentacles, but the creature ignored him, drawing him down from the tree and depositing him gently on the ground. The tentacles, which Harry know realized were vines, released him and retracted back inside a large bush at the tree’s base that he hadn’t noticed. The snidget circled the strange plant, chirping sharply. The bush rustled its leaves aggressively and the snidget squawked and zoomed to Harry. Startled, Harry caught the tiny bird as it barreled at him like a fuzzy ping pong ball; it peeked back at the bush through his fingers.

“I don’t think we should mess with that thing,” Harry agreed, unnerved.

* * *

Voldemort kept track of the books Harry read and supplied more of similar tastes. He noticed which dishes he ate little of and soon only Harry’s favorites appeared. He did not molest Harry again. In fact, he kept a gentleman’s distance. But the way he watched him … Harry was used to death stares, but desire? He already felt exposed in the form-fitting clothing Voldemort made him wear. He didn’t need the man to undress him with his eyes.

Harry purposefully kept their conversations short, determined not to engage with Voldemort but Voldemort didn’t seem to mind, content enough to study Harry as if he were a butterfly in a collection.

“Have you named him?” Voldemort asked during a lunch of seared scallops, referring to the snidget flitting about the ceiling.

“Pip,” Harry replied, without looking up from his salad.

“You must be joking.”

Against his better judgment, Harry met Voldemort’s gaze.

“No,” said Harry defiantly.

“Pip. You named him _Pip_.”

“What would you have named him?” Harry asked, aggravated.

“Something with more meaning than _Pip_.”

Harry snorted. “You wouldn’t have named him at all.”

Voldemort quirked a hair-less eyebrow. He lifted his goblet to Harry in a mocking toast.

Heat crept up Harry’s neck. He returned to his meal.

“I will not join you for dinner tonight.”

Harry’s head jerked back up. Whenever Voldemort missed a meal it meant something more important kept him away.

“Why?” he asked. Every day Harry feared the worst — that Hermione or Ron or Hagrid or the Weasleys had been captured or killed — but though the wanted list shuffled, adding and subtracting names, his friends remained.

“It is September first,” Voldemort answered.

“September …” Harry hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

“As you know, the students will be arriving tonight. I must attend the opening feast.”

“No, you don’t.”

Voldemort’s eyebrows rose, but this time he did not look quite so humored.

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re a murdering, tyrannical psycho,” Harry stated.

Voldemort’s face closed off. The tower chilled though the fire crackled at Harry’s left.

“Strong words for your savior.”

“ _Savior?”_ Harry laughed harshly. “I’d rather you’d killed me! I’d rather you’d left me in the Drift!”

“Sit down,” Voldemort ordered.

“No!” Harry shouted, only just realizing in his rage that he’d stood. “I assume Muggleborns didn’t get letters again. I also assume you made it mandatory for the rest to enroll because otherwise you wouldn’t have an opening feast at all. Hogwarts,” Harry bellowed, “was meant for _everyone_.”

“Hogwarts will function as I see fit.” Voldemort rose to his feet. “My students will be the greatest in magical learning the world has ever known.”

“The greatest at _torturing_ because that’s all you do, isn’t it? That’s all you’re good at! How many of your Death Eaters even _want_ to follow you? Or did you threaten and blackmail them into it? Remind me again,” said Harry scathingly, “how many of your precious Death Eaters tried to find you when you didn’t have a body? Four?”

Voldemort’s lips pressed into a thin, murderous line.

“ _Four_ loyal Death Eaters,” Harry said viciously, “who fucked up so royally they got themselves chunked in Azkaban. You’re right, I’m _so_ impressed.”

The crystal decanter on the table exploded. Terrified, Pip flew back into his cage. Sopping wet and covered in powdered glass, Harry laughed as Voldemort stormed from the tower, his robes whipping out of sight through the door.

* * *

Harry had nearly forgotten the sweet taste of victory. He savored it as he cleaned himself up, knowing it wouldn’t last long. Voldemort would be back and he’d make Harry pay for his words.

One window in his tower had a clear view of the lake and as night fell, Harry pulled up a chair and watched the boats cross the still water, lanterns bobbing in the darkness. Up the lawn the students emerged, a smaller cluster than any in Harry’s memory. He stood and pressed his palms against the glass. Down below, the great double doors opened, spreading a wide slice of yellow light on the grounds. The first years tromped inside, the doors shut and Harry felt a sinking sensation in his gut. So he could make Voldemort angry. So what? Harry couldn’t do anything to help those first years or the rest of the school. He couldn’t stop Voldemort. Not even Kreacher could enter Harry’s tower. He’d tried weeks ago, but Voldemort had learned from his mistakes, barring house-elves. Or maybe the old elf was dead. He’d hoped Nearly-Headless Nick or one of the other ghosts or Peeves would float through his door but they hadn’t. The tower was sealed completely.

Hopelessness crashed over him. He sank into his chair. Maybe … maybe escape wasn’t _fighting_ Voldemort. Maybe it was joining him.

Revulsion burned Harry’s insides.

But if he played nice, maybe — _maybe_ — Voldemort’s guard would drop. Maybe he’d make a mistake. He’d already given him more than Harry would have ever believed. If he was nice enough, could he convince Voldemort to let him leave his tower? It was farfetched, but what other option did he have? Voldemort was his jailer and if he wanted the lock to not be latched, he needed his jailer to forgo the key.

Well, if he was going to start, there was no point in waiting. Swallowing his pride, Harry took a steadying breath.

“Voldemort,” he said clearly to the empty room. “I’d like to speak with you, when you have a moment.”

_Play nice, play nice, play nice._

He didn’t know how quickly Voldemort would come, if he would come at all. The feast had only just begun. Harry glanced at the powdered remains of the decanter, still glittering on the table, and wondered if it was a good idea to even seek Voldemort’s audience when he was angry.

Harry sat and waited. Pip was asleep in his cage, his head tucked under one wing. And then, just when the clock stuck midnight, the door shimmered and it was like déjà vu. For a dizzying second, Harry was sent back to the Drift, back to when a shimmer in the air had made his heart swell with happiness; now it only caused dread.

Harry stood and wiped his suddenly sweating hands on his trousers. Voldemort stood before the door, face expressionless.

“What I said earlier … I was out of line. I know you’ve done a lot for me.” Harry swallowed, the words difficult to form. “I’m sorry.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “You’re … sorry.”

“Yes,” said Harry shortly and then, hoisting up a painful smile: “How was the feast?”

“Orderly.”

Harry could so easily picture it: a petrified hall of students, dining with the Dark Lord.

“I bet.”

“Is this all that you wanted to tell me?” Voldemort asked coolly.

The anger that always lay coiled and red hot in the pit of his stomach flamed, but Harry kept the stiff smile on his face and his voice polite.

_“_ Yes. That was all.”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, eying Harry in a calculating manner.

“How close were you to your head of house?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“Minerva McGonagall. She _was_ your head of house. She seems attached to you. I merely wondered if the feelings were mutual.”

“Why … why do you ask?”

“Because if you were close, I was going to suggest forgoing the wireless tomorrow as her execution will be broadcast.”

The floor vanished from under Harry’s feet. The tower walls closed in on him.

“You can’t do that!”

Voldemort’s hairless eyebrows rose. “Can’t I?”

Harry was across the room; he was before Voldemort.

“Please don’t!”

“But Harry, McGonagall is a traitor and a rebel. An active fighter against my regime. I cannot allow her crimes go unpunished.”

“Then keep her in Azkaban!”

Voldemort was unmoved. “The Order of the Phoenix must be taught not to cross me.”

Harry gripped the front of Voldemort’s robes. “Please! Please, don’t do this!”

“Why, Harry,” said Voldemort in a voice of mocking surprise, “this upsets you so much?”

Harry wanted to wrap his hands around Voldemort’s throat. Instead, he gritted, “ _Yes._ ”

“You ask a great deal from me, Harry. The date has been set. England expects it. Daily Prophet reporters have already booked rooms in the Leaky Cauldron.”

Harry felt sick. “Spare her. _Please_.”

“If I do,” Voldemort asked curiously, “what would you do for me?”

_Play nice, play nice, play nice._

Harry’s mouth was dry. His hands curled into fists against Voldemort’s chest.

“A kiss.”

Voldemort’s brow rose again. “A kiss?”

Blood pounded in Harry’s ears. Before he lost his nerve, he rose up onto his toes and pressed his lips to Voldemort’s. Instantly, he tried to pull back — a swift bump of lips against lips — but Voldemort’s hand shifted to the back of his skull as the other wrapped around his waist and Harry was drawn in. Voldemort bit his lips, forcing his mouth open. He sucked the air from Harry, kissing him so thoroughly that when it ended, he was lightheaded.

Voldemort’s eyes glimmered like rubies in the sun.

“So be it.”


	8. Chapter 8

The mossy path cushioned Harry’s feet, tickling up between his toes. Trumpet flowers glowed in the night. In the center of the garden, Voldemort stood. He looked over his shoulder and smiled.

“Harry.”

His voice wasn’t cold and high, but the low, melodic tone that had filled Harry’s head in the Drift, the voice of Tom Riddle. Harry suspected a part of him had known all along.

Voldemort faced him and his appearance changed like a mirage. One moment he was Voldemort, the next Riddle, and back again.

Harry felt himself waking. His body rested heavy on his bed. The birds outside the tower windows sang and Pip joined in, but Harry kept his eyes closed. He continued the dream, desire winning out. This was a dream, after all. No one would know.

Harry walked straight up to Voldemort and kissed him. Cool air brushed against Harry’s skin as Voldemort peeled away robes. No longer did they stand. Voldemort lay him down in a bed of flowers. His mouth traveled over him, exploring Harry’s chest. Harry gasped, back arching as Voldemort settled between his legs. He held that picture. He held the feeling of Voldemort’s mouth on his cock even as he opened his eyes.

Like a lover, shame spooned against him.

**xXx**

Voldemort entered the tower and Harry, looking out a window, did not notice him. He let his arrival go unannounced, enjoying the sight Harry made. He had grown so much stronger. No longer were his eyes darkened with exhaustion. No longer was his frame emaciated. It was as if the Drift had never placed its ice cold touch upon his skin.

Harry rarely donned the finer robes Voldemort had procured for him, only doing so when he told him to specifically. The cut of the red ones of yesterday had been blood thrumming. Left to his own devices, Harry chose trousers and shirts; slacks and jumpers. Voldemort didn’t mind. Seeing Harry’s slender form wrapped in linen or cotton or wool only made him want to remove them.

Harry finally glanced at the door. His shoulders stiffened fractionally. His voice, however, was impressively neutral.

“Voldemort.”

He turned back to the window.

Curious as to what the boy found so absorbing, Voldemort joined him.

Ah. Quidditch practice. Voldemort rolled his eyes. He had planned on banning it from the school, finding it a distraction against far better pursuits. The number of his fellow classmates who’d wasted their talents and time on _Quidditch_ …

“I thought you got rid of the houses,” said Harry, keeping his eyes on the pitch.

“I have.” Voldemort placed his hands on Harry’s waist and though he tensed under him, he did not jerk away. For nearly two weeks now, Harry had been nothing but polite. Short and clipped, but polite. It looked painful for him. Amused, Voldemort wondered how far he could press before Harry returned to his normal state and threw the tea pot at him.

“So they’ve made their own teams?” Harry asked.

“I assume so.” He honestly had no idea. Nor did he care. He inhaled Harry, the boy’s unruly black hair tickling his cheek. His lips pressed against the skin of his neck. “You smell divine.”

Harry stiffened to the point that he could have been turned into stone. He turned Harry’s face to him and Harry, so very polite, did not pull away, but it was like kissing a block of ice.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

“Harry,” his said dangerously.

The boy’s mouth remained clamped shut, but his chest heaved up and down; his fingers bit into Voldemort’s arm; fury sparked in his eyes and it was _beautiful_. Voldemort didn’t know what he wanted more. To have Harry kneel before him and take all that he gave or for the boy to fight him tooth and nail every step of the way.

He traced a finger along Harry’s chin. “Denial is futile. I see the truth all over your face.”

Harry blushed. He opened his mouth to probably fling a venomous insult, but Voldemort didn’t give him the chance. Lips crushed; tongues fought. Voldemort expected it to grow old, but each time was better than the last. He deepened it, pulling Harry so flush they could have been stitched together. He slid a hand down Harry’s spine to his ass and squeezed. Harry flinched, pressing his body even more against Voldemort. He caught the boy’s muffled gasp on his tongue and swallowed it.

Voldemort released him because if he didn’t now he certainly never would.

_And what’s wrong with that?_ he demanded silently. _Why wait?_

His heart quivered.

_No, not yet. Not yet_. He knew what he wanted; he’d known it all along. He wanted Harry to lean into him on his own initiative, just as he’d done in the Drift. He wanted those green eyes blown wide with desire rather than anger. Rather than fear. 

The moment his hold slackened, Harry pulled away. He looked ravished — face flushed, lips red, hair ruffled. Livid, he wiped his mouth on the back of a shaking hand.

Voldemort chuckled. Such a stubborn boy.

“Umbridge sought my audience this morning,” he said conversationally.

Voldemort knew Harry didn’t want to talk, but the name of a nemesis had him blurting, “What did she want?”

Voldemort grinned. Perhaps Harry would find it as entertaining as he did.

“She came with information on your whereabouts.”

Harry looked blank. “My what?”

“Your whereabouts,” Voldemort repeated. “The public has been told you’re dead, but to my followers you are still very much Undesirable No. 1. Snatchers and Death Eaters have been on the hunt since May; the competition’s fierce. Even Umbridge heads a team. She believes you’ve been hunkering down in Hampstead.”

“If you’ve told the public I’m dead, why haven’t you done the same to the Death Eaters?”

Voldemort lounged on the edge of Harry’s bed. “And spoil the fun?”

Harry’s lips pressed thin and Voldemort wanted to bite them. Sliding a hand across the duvet, he wondered if Harry’s politeness would allow him to be drawn down onto the bed.

“I cannot tell them you are dead because too many of them saw you vanish into thin air,” Voldemort explained. “I would need to bring them proof. Your severed head, for instance.”

“So why haven’t you?” Harry asked.

“Why, Harry,” said Voldemort, “I thought you were fond of your head.”

He reddened again.

“Don’t act like you can’t transfigure a block of wood into looking like me. You’re choosing to let them think I’m still alive. Why?”

“Because I fully intended to kill you myself,” Voldemort answered simply. “That was the plan, after all. Simply because I changed my mind doesn’t mean that I should call them off the hunt just yet. Dolores would be crushed.”

He smirked, entertained by Harry’s obvious irritation. He knew all about Umbridge’s stint at Hogwarts. She enjoyed talking about it. He didn’t know how much was dramatized; very little, he suspected. He could spot torturers as quick as Harry could catch the snidget.

Voldemort’s voice turned sibilant. “Would you like me to kill her?”

Harry looked suddenly strained. He shook his head.

“Really?” Voldemort goaded. “But you _hate_ her, Harry.”

“Just because I hate her doesn’t mean I want her dead,” he snapped.

“But if she suddenly _was_ dead” — Harry’s throat constricted as he swallowed and _Salazar_ , this boy would be the death of him — “you wouldn’t lose sleep. Would you?”

Voldemort held his breath, watching Harry struggle, battling an internal war.

“No,” he bit. “I don’t want you to kill her. I don’t want you to do that for me. I don’t want that!” His tirade ended in a shout.

Voldemort studied him with open fascination.

“Why do you chain yourself?” he asked, honestly wanting to know. “Are you frightened of the hatred you feel? Are you frightened by the desire to kill?”

“I don’t want to kill anyone!”

“Even me?” Voldemort’s smile spread as Harry lost all manner of speech. “Harry, I’m touched.”

**xXx**

Harry didn’t like the victorious expression on Voldemort’s face as he left after tea. He ordered him to wear robes of midnight blue for dinner. The moment he departed, Harry felt that he could breathe again. He was shaking. Jaws clenched, he returned to the window and climbed onto the wide sill. The Quidditch practice ended. The students dismounted and trekked back to the castle, brooms over their shoulders. Macnair, on his daily rounds around the forest, met another man coming from its depths. Harry thought for a moment that it was Lucius Malfoy for how the sun glinted off his blond hair, but Harry knew it couldn’t be. He’d heard on the wireless that Malfoy had been arrested.

Harry rested his forehead against the glass and watched the two men move on. The sun traveled across the sky and no one else wandered into Harry’s view. He would have sat there until dusk if hadn’t been for Pip, darting about his head, demanding fresh air.

But even outside in his secret garden, with the sun warm upon his face, Harry’s mood did not lighten. He sat upon an ornately carved bench, hardly taking in anything around him, barley noticing Pip flit in and out of bushes. As if an early frost had descended upon him, he grew colder and colder.

How sick was he? How sick of a person could he be to want Voldemort to come to him right now, right this very second, and wrap him up in his arms and kiss him into oblivion?

Was he damaged beyond repair? Had seventeen years of holding someone else’s soul irrevocably changed him? Harry pictured his soul like a tree with a strangling vine. Even with the vine cut away, the wood was warped, twisted, distorted, with grooves inches deep. The Horcrux had been torn away, but its imprint remained, letting Voldemort slip right back into place, fitting Harry, matching him, groove for groove.

* * *

The sun set and early stars glimmered overhead between dusky clouds. Harry finally rose from his bench and called for Pip.

The snidget zoomed from the top of the maple tree like a miniature golden cannonball. He landed on Harry’s finger, chirping.

Harry returned to his tower, collected the robes Voldemort wanted and disappeared into the bathroom. He undressed, filled the tub the water and climbed in.

The cold from outside followed him. It was the sort of cold that had plagued him in the Drift. The sort that sank into his bones. The sort that hindered speech and movement. His skin was covered in gooseflesh even though the water was warm.

Harry slipped under the surface. Bubbles escaped his mouth. He closed his eyes and let his lungs burn.

The water vanished with a splash, jolting Harry. Dripping wet, he blinked in confusion — the bathwater had been replaced with flowers. Trembling, Harry climbed out, petals sticking to his wet skin. He stared at the tub, now brimming with peonies, lavender, and rose. Not bothering to wrap a towel around himself, he left the bathroom. He headed straight to the fireplace, knelt before it, hesitated for a split second, and then thrust his hand into the flames. The fire was warm against his fingers, but it did not burn him. Harry watched the flames slip and dart around his fingers.

He couldn’t hurt himself.

Was he planning on hurting himself?

Memories that felt so long ago returned. Sitting in the icy cave, mind blank, incapable of movement, frozen in place and time.

_“I can’t keep — I don’t want — Please stop …”_

_“Stop coming so you can kill yourself? No, Harry.”_

Voldemort had seen him at his worst, at his lowest, and he’d fortified Harry’s cage to protect against future self-harm. The maple tree — the vines that had plucked him from its branches had not done so to stop him from a futile leap over the wall, but to stop him from diving to his death. The realization did not soothe Harry. It made him colder.

* * *

“I have a surprise for you.”

Harry looked up across the table. He had forced himself to eat though he wasn’t hungry. Beneath the table, he dug the tip of his steak knife into his palm. The blade did not penetrate his skin. It didn’t even hurt.

“And what’s that?” Harry asked.

Voldemort wore a ghost of a smile.

“What do you know of Horcruxes?”

The knife slipped.

“You must know some details,” Voldemort pressed. “You knew enough to find them. You knew enough to destroy them.”

Harry’s heart thundered.

Red eyes locked, Voldemort propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin upon interlaced fingers.

“Do you know the incantation?” he asked.

Voldemort’s smile spread at Harry’s alarmed expression. He pointed his wand to Harry’s immediate right and a woman appeared, dangling upside down. She was unconscious and bound in ropes.

It was Umbridge.

“Kill her,” said Voldemort. “I will take care of the rest.”

Blood rushed to Harry’s brain. “ _Are you out of your mind?_ ”

“I have never been more clear-headed,” Voldemort replied. He stood and Harry, taunt as a bowstring, leapt to his feet. Voldemort eyed the knife in his hand with mild interest. “I can supply you a more efficient weapon —”

“I’m not killing her!”

“Harry,” Voldemort stated, “you will grow old. You will die. I cannot have that. You are making a Horcrux.”

Harry’s stomach clenched as a horrible realization dawned on him.

“You made another one.”

Voldemort straightened to his full height. “Of course. Did you think I would remain vulnerable to attack?”

Harry staggered backward. The knife fell from his fingers. Everything they’d done, everything they’d been through to destroy the Horcruxes — all for nothing.

“ _Get out._ ”

Voldemort’s expression turned dangerous. “Harry —”

“GET OUT!” Harry snatched up his plate and threw it with all his might at Voldemort. It froze in midair with a point of his wand.

“ _Harry._ ”

But Harry grabbed his wine goblet and threw it like a grenade. Slices of duck scattered as the serving tray followed next. Nothing hit Voldemort, and with an enraged bellow Harry grasped hold of his chair next.

“ _Petrificus totalus!_ ”

Harry’s body locked up, the chair immobilized in mid swing. Eyes flashing, Voldemort stepped up before him. For a moment he believed Voldemort would attack him; it had been ages since he’d seen him so furious.

“I have protected you, fed you, clothed you, _saved_ _you_ ,” Voldemort hissed, “and this is how you repay me?”

Harry’s jaws were clamped shut, so he put as much hatred as he could in his glare.

“You will obey me.”

The spell lifted and Harry had not expected it. The chair overbalanced him and he tripped sideways.

“Kill her.”

“No!” Harry shouted.

Voldemort bared his teeth. “ _Then I will make you._ ”

He pointed his wand at Harry again, but this time Harry was quicker. He drew back his fist and punched Voldemort across the jaw. Voldemort staggered back, momentarily shocked speechless, and then his bloody mouth twisted into a snarl.

“ _Crucio!_ ” 

Harry’s vision went white. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t breathe —

The pain stopped and he heaved on the floor. Through misted eyes, he saw the hem of Voldemort’s black robes swish out of sight through the door. Pip flew from the safety of a bed post and landed on a roasted potato. He took two short hops to Harry, cocking his head sideways and chirping worriedly.

“I’m okay,” Harry told him, shaking from head to foot. “I’m okay.”

**xXx**

Bella was enraptured. She had never seen Voldemort in such a rage and the sight took her breath away. Blood was smeared across his chin. What had he been doing? Since Hogwarts had reopened for students, Death Eaters had returned to their homes. It had been a fluke coincidence that she was even here. Unable to find rest at Grimmauld Place, she had returned to Hogwarts for where else could she go? Malfoy Manor repulsed her, a constant reminder of Narcissa and Lucius and their traitorous crimes. Dinner was done, the students were in their quarters and, like a thunderous storm cloud, _he_ appeared, murder crackling the air. The sight stilled her heart and he blew past her before she could speak. He was gone, down the corridor in the direction of the double oak doors. She followed, heeled boots clicking. By the time she reached Hogwarts’ front steps, he had already leapt into the night, vanishing into the inky blackness.

“Our Lord is not in good spirits.”

Bella tore her gaze from the sky. Mathis stood beside her.

“Clearly,” said Bella, eying Mathis disdainfully. “What are you doing here?”

“The Dark Lord has gifted me room and board. As I don’t possess manors and townhouses, I accepted.” His mouth twitched into a goading smile. “What brings _you_ , Mrs. Lestrange?”

“I could not sleep.”

“Ah.” And then: “Were you lacking proper company?”

His eyes glimmered and Bella saw the truth all over his smug face.

“You saw us.”

“I saw _you_ ,” Mathis corrected. “Half-clothed, stumbling out of the Dark Lord’s chambers … it does not take a Seer to piece together the picture. Is your husband aware of you extracurricular actives?”

Bella snorted. “You wish to blackmail me? Don’t bother. My husband knows no man can compete with the Dark Lord. Rodolphus is honored that I am desired.”

“Is he?” Mathis chuckled. “You English certainly do things differently.”

“What do you want, Mathis?” Bella snapped irritably.

“I was heading out for a walk. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask. You were there when the Dark Lord attacked Harry Potter in the Forbidden Forest, weren’t you?”

“Of course,” said Bella.

“Is it true that the Killing Curse struck the boy?”

Bella ground her jaw. “Yes.”

“And it did not kill him?”

Bella’s lips pressed tight together.

“Astonishing,” Mathis breathed. “Isn’t it?”

“Careful, Mathis,” Bella warned. “With such adoration some might call you are a Potter supporter.”

Mathis let out a raucous laugh.

“Hardly,” he said, once he recovered himself. “I am merely fascinated. To survive the unsurvivable … it makes me wonder what sort of magic Potter wielded.”

“None,” said Bella scathingly. “The filth didn’t even raise his wand. Pathetic coward.”

“Oh, he had something up his sleeve,” Mathis disagreed, more to himself than to Bella.

He moved past her, heading down the steps.

“Wait!”

He turned.

“What caused the Dark Lord to be in such a rage?” she asked. “What happened?”

Mathis shrugged. “I don’t know. I had just finished my supper when I saw him, but I can’t help wonder if it has something to do with the tower.”

Bella frowned, confused. “Tower?”

“The West Tower. Didn’t you know? It has been banned of all access accept our Lord’s since August. I assumed he was treating a Death Eater, for Healers had been summoned, though I have not seen them in some time. But it made me wonder, if someone was being treated, why not be in the Hospital Wing or, if grievously injured, St Mungo’s? Why have the tower sealed? Could the wizard or witch not be a Death Eater, but a prisoner? But then, what sort of prisoner could possibly receive such care? And why keep their identity a secret? I have found it a puzzle,” he said cheerfully, “but as you often say, our Lord knows best and we are the fools to question him.” Smiling, he clasped his hands behind his back. “I have kept you longer than I should. Give Rodolphus my greetings.”

As Mathis headed toward the forest, Bella descended the steps. She turned on the grassy lawn, looking upward at Hogwarts Castle. Quickly, she located the West Tower. Lights glowed through its windows. 

**xXx**

A storm raged above him and Voldemort flew straight into it. Lighting forked, rain pelted, the wind howled and yet he could still hear Harry’s screams.

He could have killed him.

If he had not stopped himself when he had … Voldemort gritted his teeth. With a burst of speed, he exploded up through the storm clouds.

Why was he still playing Harry’s games? He had given the boy everything and what had Voldemort received for his kindness?

Cold, stiff indifference.

Amortentia would change that.

Voldemort shivered and it wasn’t due to the ice crystallizing on his saturated robes.

**xXx**

“Do you think I am heartless?”

The hairs rose on the back of Harry’s neck at Voldemort’s soft words. Too tense, Harry had been unable to turn in for bed, though it was well past midnight. He hadn’t even taken off the dress robes he’d worn for dinner. The night ticked on and Harry had paced his tower, keeping a firm back to Umbridge. He didn’t know what to do if she woke and found herself strung up like a spider’s snack.

And now, Voldemort had returned, just as Harry had known he would.

“Do you?” Voldemort pressed, still so quiet. “For I would say it is you who is the heartless one. You, who seduced me.”

“I didn’t —”

“ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” Voldemort hissed, “and now you have the audacity to paint me the villain? _You_ started this, but now I see … that was all part of the plan, wasn’t it? How poorly I misjudged you.”

“I wasn’t using you,” said Harry, unexpectedly hurt by the accusation. “I wouldn’t have done that.”

“But if you had known who I was from the start,” Voldemort said swiftly, “that it was Lord Voldemort your salvation relied upon … would you have been different? Or would you still have toyed with my heart with reckless disregard? Perhaps it is time that I show as much respect for you as you have for me.”

Harry’s mouth ran dry. “You said you wouldn’t do that.”

“And you said you would rather admit your feelings,” said Voldemort coldly. “Apparently, we have both lied.”

“What do you want me to say?” Harry exploded. “That I love you? I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

Harry stared at Voldemort, incredulous. “Because you killed my parents! Because you’re hunting down my friends! Because you’re the worst thing in my life!” 

A great stillness came over Voldemort. He hardly looked like he breathed.

“The worst,” he said colorlessly. “I see.”

Harry saw the decision in Voldemort’s red eyes. He lunged for the candelabra on the table just as Voldemort surged forward, but Voldemort reached him first.

His hold was iron. He yanked Harry flush.

Dear God, he was going to do it. He was actually going to —

But instead of throwing Harry onto the bed, Voldemort leapt into the air, Harry clamped tight in his arms. Glass shattered and cold wind whipped Harry’s hair. They were flying. The tower — Hogwarts — shrunk to the size of a pinprick as they rocketed into the night sky. Voice in his throat, Harry held onto Voldemort, eyes stinging from the rushing wind. Voldemort flew faster than a Firebolt and then, suddenly, he slowed. He drifted downward. He released Harry just short of the ground and he stumbled as his feet hit wet grass.

“What are you doing?”

Voldemort did not immediately reply. He floated six feet above the ground. From within his pocket he pulled out a wand; he rolled it between his fingers and then tossed it to Harry. Startled, Harry caught it. It was the Hawthorn.

Alarmed, he asked again, “What are you doing?”

“There is a village to the north. Be wary of Snatchers.”

“You’re letting me go?”

Something crossed Voldemort’s face. A twisting of emotion Harry had never seen on him before.

“I never had you.”

In a burst of wind, he shot upward and was swallowed by the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who was expecting _that_ turn of events? Not Harry, that’s for sure. And if you're just as shocked at Voldy's actions, Voldy's just as shocked too. We'll be seeing his reaction to this spontaneous burst of selflessness in the next chapter.
> 
> I haven’t said it in a while but I’m always thinking it: Thank you so much for your support and enthusiasm for this story. Y’all are blowing me away. 
> 
> Next chapter will be the start of Part Three and there will be four parts in total. We’re getting there!


	9. Part Three: Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People. _People._ Oh my lord. So many comments! So much shouting! So much excitement! I was like this ♡〜٩(^▿^)۶〜♡ the entire time. I knew it was an intense chapter but I hadn’t really realized the state I’d be leaving all of you in, so I got this one ready for you as quick as I could! And because y’all made me so happy, I decided to combine two chapters into one. I hope this mammoth helps soothe some of the pain left by the previous one.

**“They were like two enemies in love with one another.”**

**― Fyodor Dostoevsky, _The Brothers Karamazov_**

* * *

Sparks from the fire danced through the air. The gang of Snatchers sat in a circle around it. A tent was to their backs. One was singing a crude song; another sharpened a dagger; the third took a slug from a bottle as he turned a spit. Roast meat filled Draco’s nostrils, making his mouth water. Under the cover of darkness, he crouched behind a tree.

Draco had not been made for the wilderness. He missed his bed; he missed his manor; he missed his delicious, home cooked food. Hunting was awful, but skinning and gutting … that was a hundred times worse. The wind blew, kicking the coals into a frenzy of sparks and sending the sweet, delicious smell of seared, succulent pork his way. Draco’s knees wobbled. He pulled out his wand. He couldn’t wait until they fell asleep — the brutes might eat all of it; it wasn’t that large a pig. He aimed for an overhanging branch on the opposite edge of the camp.

“ _Reducto_ ,” he whispered.

The branch snapped, falling into the underbrush with a crash. The gang jumped to their feet and turned toward the sound. As one, they moved away from the fire.

“Spread out,” one of them ordered.

Draco waited until the last one had disappeared into the shrubbery before sprinting hunchbacked into the clearing. He grabbed the spit, but it was too heavy to carry. Cursing, he pointed his wand at the pig, severing off a ham.

“There ain’t nothing here,” a petulant voice came from the dark woods.

“Keep looking! Might be good bounty.”

“Or just a dead branch,” the first complained.

“ _I’ve_ got something.”

Draco froze. The voice had come from right behind him and, a second later, a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

“Relashio!” Draco shouted.

The Snatcher grunted as his hand was forced off Draco. He bolted, the blisteringly hot hunk of ham clamped in one hand.

“ _Tarantallegra!_ ”

Draco jerked out of his run. His legs spasmed, leaping and kicking in a stupid, uncontrollable dance. The Snatchers roared with laughter.

“That’s it, boy!” the caster cheered, “dance for your supper!”

“Hey, hold on … That’s Draco Malfoy.”

“Who?” the first grunted.

“Draco Malfoy,” the second repeated, growing excited. “His daddy’s Lucius Malfoy, that bigwig Death Eater who’s rotting in Azkaban cuz he turned tail. And the wife, Nar-something — rumor has it she sided with Potter. Told the Dark Lord to his face that he was dead when he wasn’t.”

The other two Snatchers hissed at the sound of Potter’s name.

“ _That’s_ their son,” the Snatcher finished gleefully.

Draco couldn’t break the jinx. Instead he aimed his wand at the brutes, but his feet turned him in a tight spin.

“Son of a disgraced Death Eater, eh?” the leader breathed. “That might be lucrative.”

The spell stopped and Draco face planted in the dirt. He scrambled upright and shot a stunner but it missed wildly.

The Snatcher tutted. “Now don’t go doing that.”

Ropes encased Draco from neck to ankles. He toppled over.

“I say we take him to Greyback,” said the excitable Snatcher.

“Greyback?” The first snorted. “And lose half our payment in the process? Nah. We’re going to the big man himself.”

Draco’s lungs froze solid.

“No!” he shouted. “No! I’ll do anything! Don’t give me to the Dark Lord!”

“So it wasn’t just Daddy running away from our Lordship, but the pipsqueak too. I wonder …” He crouched down before Draco and worked up the sleeve of his left arm until the Dark Mark peeked between the ropes. “Ohoho! Nice. Very nice. Pollock! Green! Pack up. We’re —”

A brilliant red stunner shot through the darkness and hit the Snatcher. He crashed to the ground.

“What the —”

Pollock and Green spun around, wands raised.

Draco flicked his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes and stared into the darkness, heart hammering.

“Show yourself!” the one named Pollock yelled only to leap out of the way as another stunner cut through the night. Green didn’t move fast enough and with an _oomph!_ he was out cold. Pollock let out a battle cry, attacking the forest with a barrage of curses. Tree branches splintered, bushes caught fire —

Finally, panting, he stopped the attack. He brandished his wand at the smoking, crackling tree line.

“How’s _that_ , motherfuc —”

“Stupify!”

Pollock’s legs shot out from under him; he landed with a heavy thud on his back. Draco held his breath, heart pounding, as a figure appeared through the smoke.

“Aguamenti,” the figure murmured and steam hissed through the clearing. He moved toward Draco, and as he passed the glowing fire pit, Draco saw his face.

His mouth dropped open.

Potter crouched before him. “You okay?”

Draco stared, mind stuck. Potter pointed his wand — no, _Draco’s_ wand — at the ropes binding him. They unraveled.

“Malfoy,” Potter repeated clearly, “are you okay?”

“Am — I — okay?” Draco gritted through chattering teeth. “ _Am — I — **okay**_?” He punched Potter hard in the chest and Potter flinched, jumping up to his feet.

“Hey!” he said angrily, but Draco was madder. He leapt to his feet and swung at Potter again.

“Shit face!” he roared as he tried to pummel every bit of Potter he could reach. “Fucking piece of shit! Fucking piss pot! YOU FUCKING FUCKER!”

“Stupify!” Potter shouted and everything went black.

When next Draco returned to consciousness, he was again lying in the dirt. Potter had dragged him to the fire. He sat opposite him, sitting on one of the Snatcher’s makeshift wooden benches. He hadn’t tied him up. He also, surprisingly, hadn’t removed Draco’s wand; it remained in the pocket of his ripped and muddy robes. Potter watched him as he sat up, leaning against a log.

“Hungry?” Potter asked, offering a plate of sliced pork.

“Shut up!” Draco barked.

Potter’s mouth tightened.

Steaming, Draco wiped his cheek; dirt smeared the back of his hand.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?”

Potter took a second to respond.

“Away.”

“ _Away?_ ” Draco released a scathing laugh. “What does that mean?”

“You’re being hysterical and you need to eat,” said Potter firmly. He pushed the plate across the dirt toward Draco’s half of the circle.

But Draco’s sluggish brain had finally ground back into gear _. Potter._

The Dark Lord wanted Potter more than anything and Draco was going to be the one to deliver him. His family would be saved. Everything would go back to how it had been. He lumbered unsteadily to his feet.

“Stay very still, Potty.”

But his hand was trembling and he dropped his wand. He snatched it back up and nearly lost his balance in the process. 

Potter didn’t rise. He didn’t even reach for his wand.

“I heard that your father was put in Azkaban again.”

“My father _and_ my mother! She helped you! She told the Dark Lord you were dead and because of that she’s in Azkaban!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_?” Draco’s voice rose in disbelief. “You turn tail and say you’re _sorry_?” 

“I didn’t run away,” said Potter sharply. “I was … it doesn’t matter. You won’t believe me.”

“Get up,” Draco ordered.

“Malfoy,” said Potter, exasperated.

“I’m taking you to the Dark Lord” — Draco pointed his wand at Potter, but no ropes conjured around him — “I’m taking you” — He shook his wand, seeing double as his head swam — “I’m taking you — I’m — _dammit!_ ”

“I was already with You-Know-Who.”

So frustrated by the lack of magic issuing from his wand, Draco was slow on the uptake.

“ … what?”

“If I tell you where I’ve been will you eat something?” Potter asked. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“As if you care,” Draco snarled.

Except … Potter had offered him food; Potter had stopped the Snatchers. But it was Draco’s legs that made the decision for him. Too weak, they buckled and he sat heavily on his log. He grabbed the plate from the dirt and stuffed pork into his mouth. Potter watched without comment. Mouth too crammed with meat, Draco waved him on and Potter, looking oddly strained, told him the most ludicrous story Draco had ever heard. When he finished, Draco stared at him in silence and then he began to laugh. It started as a wheeze and then it grew until it bounded from tree to tree.

Potter sat stiffly, not saying a word.

“You expect me to believe — that you — _snogged_ — the Dark Lord?” He howled with mirth and clutched a stitch in his side.

“Why would I make it up?” Potter asked.

Draco’s laughter died. He studied Potter more shrewdly. Unlike Draco, he was clean and wearing highly expensive dress robes.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked again. “Come on, tell the truth.”

“I did.”

“But,” said Draco impatiently, “he _had_ you. If I’m to believe anything you’ve said, you’re telling me that the Dark Lord had you locked up and then _let you go_? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” For the first time, Potter looked worried. “We’d argued — nothing new — but this time he …” A shadow seemed to fall over Potter’s face, as he was consumed by memories. “He flew me out. Dropped me off near these woods.”

“What?” Draco shot to his feet, all levity gone. He stared, wide-eyed into the darkness.

“I smelled smoke; I heard voices,” Potter continued. “I saw you tied up.”

Draco felt sick. If Potter was telling the truth, the Dark Lord had been far too close for comfort. Hell, he might still be here. He ran to Pollock and began rooting about in his pockets.

“What are you doing?” Potter asked.

“I’m getting out of here,” said Draco feverishly. “I’m not hanging around if the Dark Lord decides he wants his lap dance back.”

“You’re really starting to bug me,” said Potter.

Draco fished out the knife from Pollock’s belt. He pocketed it and hurried over to Green.

“Malfoy, what happened to Kreacher?”

Draco paused in his ransacking. He looked over his shoulder. It took him a moment to place the name.

“That old elf? He was killed along with all the other house elves who fought in the battle. The Dark Lord replaced them with others.”

Potter paled, but his voice was steady as he said, “I need to find the Order of the Phoenix.”

Draco gaped at Potter. “Have you gone completely insane? Why would you want to go to them? Why would you think they’d take you? You traded spit with the Dark Lord!”

“Which isn’t something I’m going to tell them,” said Potter in a low, dangerous voice. “Do you have any idea where they might be?”

“No,” said Draco shortly and he moved on to the last Snatcher.

“You should come with me.”

“No thanks,” Draco sneered.

“Malfoy, come on! You’re going to get killed out here on your own!”

Draco was incensed. “And whose goddamned fault is that?”

“If you’re trying to blame me for the fact that you joined You-Know-Who —”

“YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO STOP HIM!” Draco bellowed. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FIX EVERYTHING!”

The fire sent up another flurry of sparks, its light seeming to make Potter paler. Furious, Draco bent back over the Snatcher.

“I’ll get your parents out of Azkaban.”

Draco stilled. Slowly, he turned.

“And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Potter, “but I’ll find a way.”

In Draco’s hesitant silence, Potter added quickly, “You’re a wanted Death Eater. How much longer can you keep dodging Snatchers?”

“The Order won’t take me.”

“They will if I’m with you,” said Potter.

Uncertainty pricked Draco. “Why? Why help me?”

Potter opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked suddenly very tired. “Because why not?”

Ringing silence filled the camp. Potter finally stood and moved to the scattered unconscious Snatchers, levitating them into a group and adding more ropes. Was any of this real? Had Draco been hit over the head? Potter back? Potter and the Dark Lord … Draco shoved the image from his mind.

Potter promising to free his parents?

_He’s lying. He can’t do it. No one can._

But all through their years at Hogwarts, it was Potter who saved the day. Potter, who always came out on top.

Draco shivered as the memory came over him: trapped in Fiendfyre and Potter, risking life and limb, diving for him on a broomstick.

Potter was an idiot, but he was an idiot who kept his word.

“You get them out.”

Potter straightened. He held Draco’s gaze. “I’ll get them out.”

Jaw clenched, Draco nodded. The Snatchers had set up a tent and Draco marched straight in it.

“If the Dark Lord comes, you’re on your own.”

As the tent’s flap swished shut behind him, Draco thought he heard Potter mutter, “No surprise there.”

**xXx**   
  


Harry watched Malfoy vanish within the tent. Sounds of rummaging ensued, but Harry focused his ears to the night. If Voldemort had changed his mind, he would have come by now. Harry didn’t know if he wanted Voldemort’s bone-white face to bloom out of the darkness or not. He felt as if something had been snatched away from him.

_Stop it_ , he berated himself. He checked again that the Snatchers were still unconscious and their ropes secure before entering the tent. He stopped in his tracks.

It wasn’t just any tent; it was _his_ tent. Or at least, Perkins’ tent. It must have been picked up by these Snatchers when he, Ron and Hermione had been ambushed by Greyback.

“We should move to somewhere else,” Harry said. “Those Snatchers are going to become a problem soon.”

Malfoy didn’t reply, too busy staring at Harry, dumbstruck.

“Those are Soria robes.”

“Who?”

“ _Soria_ ,” said Malfoy, as if Harry was an imbecile. “She hasn’t made anything in two decades.”

To Harry’s immense discomfort, Malfoy crossed the tent and took hold of his arm, inspecting the sleeve, studying the stitch work with something close to reverence.

“My great uncle had one of her last cloaks. He kept it in a glass case.”

“Malfoy, let go of my arm.”

Malfoy pinked and swiftly released Harry.

“I’m taking a bath,” he stated and turned on his heel for the bathroom, but Harry grabbed the back of his robes, stopping him.

“We don’t have time for that. We need to get out of here. Now.”

“ _You_ may have been living in luxury,” Draco said waspishly, “but I’m sick of smelling like a troll.”

“It’ll only take five minutes, alright?” Harry snapped. “Can you wait five minutes or would you rather get caught?”

Malfoy crossed his arms, scowling.

Harry set to work. It had been a long time since he’d last had to pack up the tent, but it broke down quickly enough, shrinking to a tiny jumble of poles and canvas. Harry pocketed the mess and before Malfoy could argue against it, had closed his hand around Malfoy’s arm and Apparated to the forest where they had held the Quidditch World Cup. Fireflies flickered in the night. An owl hooted.

“Erecto.”

The tent zoomed from Harry’s pocket; spikes jabbed into the leafy ground, polls snapped upright, the canvas fluttered into place. Without a word, Malfoy disappeared back inside it and Harry walked a wide circle, casting the protective spells he and Hermione had done so many times before. Finished, he entered the tent and the bathroom door was still closed, sounds of the shower running issued behind it. Harry sat heavily on a flower-patterned armchair, the armchair Hermione had always chosen.

How was he going to get in touch with them? A letter? He’d have to sneak into a wizarding village to do that and even then, how could he be certain that the note wouldn’t be intercepted? How could he phrase a message clearly and yet in code?

He stood and paced, striding from the armchair to the kitchen, from kitchen to bunk beds, and back again. A patronus could send a message, but Harry had never learned how. And would it be wise for the Stag to gallop across Britain? How far could it even travel? Harry might as well stride into Diagon Alley, the number of people who would see it …

He paused halfway to the refrigerator. What had Smethwyck said? 

_If people knew you were alive … you have no idea the hope you’d bring._

Was his Stag common knowledge? Members of the DA knew … the entire Wizengamot knew … and the Death Eaters who’d patrolled Hogsmeade had known. The world thought him either dead or a coward. Sending the Stag out would tell them otherwise.

But was that smart? Was it smart to literally alert everyone — Snatcher and Death Eater included — that he was out and about?

And Voldemort … what would he do?

“ _Much_ better,” Malfoy said with satisfaction, striding out of the bathroom, hair slicked back and clean. His torn robes were no longer filthy and didn’t quite smell as badly though a hint of troll still lingered.

Harry made up his mind. As Malfoy flopped into an armchair, he ducked out of the tent.

“Expecto Patronum.”

Being able to wield magic again … fighting those Snatchers … Harry’s heart had sung with joy, but there was nothing quite like this. The Stag burst from his wand, bright and shining. With no dementors to chase, it turned to him.

“I need to send a message,” Harry told it. “How does that work?”

The Stag’s moonlit eyes stared at Harry unblinkingly.

“I’m where we first set up camp,” Harry said clearly to the Stag, thinking of nothing but Ron and Hermione.

_Go to Ron and Hermione. Tell Ron and Hermione._

The Stag waggled its left ear and then it was gone, bounding through the forest on silent hooves.

“What are you doing?”

Harry turned at Malfoy’s accusatory voice. He marched from the tent’s opening, pointing a finger into the darkness where the Stag had dashed.

“Tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did.”

“How else am I supposed to get in touch with Ron and Hermione?”

“I don’t know!” Malfoy raged. “Maybe something a little less ‘ _Here I am! Come and get me!_ ’ to the entire continent!”

“No one can find us while we’re inside the protections.”

“You better be right,” Malfoy snarled. “How do you know for sure they’re going to come, anyway? They’ll probably think it’s a trap.”

Harry sat down on a patch of leafy ground, watching the surrounding forest.

“They’ll come. You’ll see.”

He expected Malfoy to march back inside the tent in a huff; he didn’t expect him to transfigure a stick into an armchair and plop himself beside Harry.

“What are you —”

“If you think I’m taking my eyes off you, you’ve turned into an even bigger idiot.”

“There’s no telling how long it will take them to get here.”

“So?” Malfoy snapped.

“If you want to get some sleep … I swear I won’t leave you behind.”

Malfoy didn’t look at him, crossing his arms irritably. They sat in silence, listening to crickets. And then, Malfoy suddenly asked, “What are you going to tell them?”

His voice lacked the aggression of before. He was openly curious.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered.

“Better come up with something fast, Potty.”

Harry cocked a humorless, half smile and then he wrinkled his nose as a breeze drifted the smell of Malfoy’s robes his way. He blinked … He got to his feet and the swift movement made Malfoy jump in alarm, his wand springing into his hand.

“What is it?” he demanded, looking about the dark forest.

“Your robes,” said Harry, already undoing the fastenings of his, “trade with me.”

“What?”

“ _Trade with me,_ ” Harry repeated, now starting on the fine lace ties that ran up the side of his inner vest. Soria was far too fascinated with corsets for Harry’s liking.

Dawning realization came over Malfoy. “You’re going to tell them you were a prisoner.”

“And I need to look the part. Give me your robes.”

Malfoy looked insulted for a fraction of a second and then he was yanking off his clothing. Harry had been braced for the stench, but it still turned his stomach as he pulled on Malfoy’s robes.

“Did you sleep in a sewer?”

“Sod off.” But Malfoy was exultant. He turned in a circle, hands sliding over the fabric. “This is _marvelous_.”

“If you two need some time alone together …”

“Sod off,” he said again.

**xXx**

Was this what it was like to cut off one’s hand? To be so shocked, so horrified that you were immobilized? Voldemort kept his mouth clamped shut for he feared that if he opened it he would scream and never stop screaming for the pain in his chest, in his heart, in his mind was immeasurable.

He’d let him go. _He’d let him go._

Voldemort did not remember the flight back to Hogwarts; he didn’t recall landing upon the Astronomy Tower, yet here he was.

_Mistake, mistake, mistake —_ doubt accosted him, but Voldemort knew the truth. All he’d wanted was to hold Harry, but all he knew how to do was crush.

A sharp, blistering pain deep in his chest caught him off guard. He doubled up, clutching the parapet to keep from crashing to his knees. He was rendered breathless as the pain intensified — his vision went white.

Quick, clattering footsteps and then the Astronomy Tower’s door burst open.

“My Lord! Potter’s been sighted!”

It took a moment for Voldemort’s brain to focus upon Yaxley’s words. Gripping the parapet for support, he turned.

“What?”

“His patronus was seen in five counties — Aurors have been dispatched. He has finally shown himself! We will capture him, my Lord!”

The pain stabbed acutely again. The agony twisted his face into an ugly snarl.

“No one touches him, Yaxley,” he ordered harshly. “ _He is mine_.”

**xXx**

Dawn slowly and steadily illuminated the forest. Though Harry knew it would take time for his message to reach Ron and Hermione, he still grew impatient and then worried. What if it hadn’t worked? What if the spell hadn’t been strong enough to last the trip? What if they _couldn’t_ get to Harry? What if they were injured or captured?

To release the nervous energy, he paced a ring around the tent. Malfoy remained in his chair at its mouth.

“I’m still waiting to hear your master plan,” Malfoy drawled in a loud, carrying voice that put Harry’s teeth on edge. “How are you going to get my parents out of Azkaban?”

“I don’t know,” Harry gritted, “but I’ll —”

“Figure something out.” Harry came around the side of the tent in time to see Malfoy roll his eyes. “Since all we’re doing is waiting, figure it out now. In fact, why don’t we just go?” He got to his feet.

“Break into Azkaban right now?” said Harry, eyebrows shooting into his fringe. “I never thought you were suicidal.”

“As if you had nice, fat plans with all that stuff you did at Hogwarts!”

“Yeah,” said Harry, more out of a desire to shut Malfoy up rather than tell the truth, “I did. So trust me when I say I’ll figure something out.”

Malfoy looked mutinous.

“I want my wand back.”

Harry, who’d been about to start his circular route around the tent yet again, did a double take.

“You want me to give up my wand?” he said, incredulous.

“It’s not your wand,” Malfoy snarled. “It’s mine! You stole it!”

“I didn’t steal it,” said Harry, just as angry. “I won it off you fair and square.”

“That doesn’t make it yours!”

“I don’t have another wand, Malfoy!”

Malfoy fished out the wand in his pocket and for a moment, Harry thought he was going to hex him, but he held it out to Harry.

“Then take this one.”

“Borrowed wands don’t work.”

“So?”

“So I’m sticking with the one I’ve got,” said Harry. “End of discussion.”

He turned away from Malfoy, desperately needing space.

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry barely dodged the attack. He grabbed the Hawthorn from his pocket.

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Harry growled in warning.

“Give me back my wand!”

“I said, no.”

“Give me back my wand or I’ll take it back!”

“Malfoy, shut up!”

“GIVE IT BACK!”

Sparks flew at Harry’s face; they exploded like firecrackers against his shield. Malfoy attacked with everything he had. Spells ricocheted off Harry’s shield, shooting like bullets into the forest. A flock of black birds erupted out of the canopy, their squawks adding to the noise. Harry dove behind the side of the tent and Malfoy charged after him. The moment he appeared around the side, Harry was ready. He gave the Hawthorn an upward jerk and Malfoy flipped upside down. Soria’s elegant robes flopped around Malfoy’s head and arms, entangling him.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted.

Malfoy released a furious bellow as his wand was snatched from his hand. He swung his arms, trying to hit Harry.

“I’m sorry, Malf —” Harry quickly sidestepped a flying fist. He flicked his wand and Malfoy dropped to the ground in a heap of robes. “I would give you back your wand if I could,” Harry said before Malfoy could untangle himself enough to lunge at him. “Don’t you think I’d rather have mine back? But it’s gone. If you want me to get your parents out of Azkaban, I need a wand I can trust.”

Malfoy was pink in the face. Leaves stuck out of his hair.

“When this is over,” he snarled. “When they’re out of Azkaban … you’re giving me back my wand.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply that he bloody would _not_ , but then he stilled. How would he feel if the roles were reversed? How would he feel if the holly had given its loyalty to Malfoy?

“Okay.”

Malfoy looked startled. Even more startled when Harry tossed him back his disarmed wand.

“You swear?” said Malfoy.

Harry nodded, pointedly ignoring the uncomfortable clench of his gut. “When your parents are free, I’ll give you back the Hawthorn.” 

Malfoy got to his feet. For the first time, he didn’t seem to have a response. No cutting sarcasm. No pompous drawl. Instead, he looked strangely wrong-footed. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his robes and nodded stiffly, jaw set.

Awkwardness stretched between them and Harry, wondering if there were any tea bags in the tent, made to move back inside when distant voices issued through the forest. Harry and Malfoy snapped to attention; Harry listened hard, barely breathing —

The voices grew clearer.

“Harry? Harry?”

People were calling his name and they weren’t just any people.

“Wait —” Malfoy hissed, but Harry had already taken off, running out of the protective circle and deeper into the forest. Pushing aside low-hanging branches and crashing through brambles, Harry sprinted, following the shouts. He heard Malfoy chase after him.

“Harry?”

“Hermione!” Harry shouted as they came into view. “Ron!”

“Harry!”

They met in a body slamming crash of arms. Ron had grown even taller and Hermione’s hair was bushier than Harry remembered. For the first time in so long, Harry felt that he was home.

* * *

Ron and Hermione had not come alone. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mr. Weasley and Hagrid stood half a dozen paces away, staring at Harry as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Tears poured down Hagrid’s face, dampening his wiry beard. Grinning from ear to ear, Harry made to move to them, but the only unfamiliar wizard in the group drew his wand, pointed it directly at Harry’s chest and said sharply, “Not another step.”

“Gawain,” said Mr. Weasley impatiently. “It’s Harry.”

“Not until I’m sure of it, he isn’t,” said Gawain harshly.

The name resonated within Harry. “You’re Gawain Robards, Head of the Aurors.”

Robards snorted, voice bitter. “Not much of a department I want to be in charge of anymore.”

“You saw the patronus,” said Ron, angry that Robards had not lowered his wand.

“Patronus’ can be faked,” Robards disagreed. “You think he’s the only one in the world who’s got a Stag?”

“We heard Harry’s voice,” said Hermione, stepping between Robards and Harry. “That can’t be faked.”

Robards ground his jaw, but he lowered his wand and with it the restraint of the others broke. Beaming, Kingsley and Mr. Weasley rushed to Harry, but Hagrid reached him first.

“I knew ya weren’t dead! I knew it!”

“Hagrid — I can’t — breathe —”

Hagrid released him and Harry, grinning, rubbed his ribs.

“Where have you been?” Hermione demanded. “We’ve been terrified.”

“We thought You-Know-Who had you,” said Ron.

“But we knew he’d say so if he did,” said Hermione.

“We’ve been looking _everywhere_.”

“I …” Harry hesitated a split second. “I was his prisoner.”

“What?” Hermione gasped as Ron stared and Kingsley and Robards shared a look Harry didn’t like at all. “But that doesn’t … why would he keep you alive … why …”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, thinking fast. “I think I was under an enchantment. I woke up and” — Harry glanced slightly over his shoulder; Malfoy was out of sight, hiding behind some foliage — “Malfoy was there.”

It was Ron’s turn to sound incredulous. “Malfoy?”

At the sound of his name Malfoy stepped into sight behind a tree.

“He got me out,” said Harry quickly as Robards and now Ron trained their wands upon Malfoy. “We escaped together. He’s not with You-Know-Who anymore.”

“Once a Death Eater,” Robards snarled, “always a Death Eater.”

Harry stepped between them. “If you want Malfoy, you’ll have to go through me.”

Ron looked thoroughly alarmed to have Harry on the other end of his wand; he quickly lowered it.

“Without Malfoy I wouldn’t have gotten away,” Harry insisted firmly.

Unlike Ron, Robards had no problem with Harry in the line of fire.

“And why,” he asked, “has Malfoy decided to change sides?”

“He —”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it from him,” said Robards harshly, “unless he’s forgotten how to talk?”

“The Dark Lord imprisoned my parents,” said Malfoy.

“So?” said Robards, unimpressed.

“So I want them out,” said Malfoy hotly.

Robards let out a callous laugh. “Hear that?” he said to Kingsley. “The kid wants his mummy and daddy back. You know what I want?” he said, bearing down upon Malfoy, who hurriedly stepped behind Harry. “I want my job back. I want to put You-Know-Who in a grave so deep not even the worms will find him. I want this war over!”

“Malfoy can help you finish it,” said Harry.

Behind him, Harry felt Malfoy twitch.

“Malfoy’s been on the inside for years,” Harry continued. “He can help.”

“Gawain,” said Mr. Weasley, “Harry’s right.”

“I don’t trust Death Eaters,” Gawain snarled.

“Then trust me,” said Harry.

Harry could tell that Robards didn’t trust him at all, but he was outnumbered, surrounded by Harry’s companions, and though no one looked particularly excited about welcoming Malfoy into the group, they weren’t going to fight Harry. Kingsley gave a small nod and Robards’ nostrils flared, but he finally put his wand away.

“Come on, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley, beaming. “We’ve left everyone waiting. Molly and Ginny are probably beside themselves.”

Harry’s stomach clenched. _Ginny._ What was he going to say to Ginny? The happiness that had brimmed within him at the return of his friends dried away. He took Mr. Weasley’s offered hand and took Malfoy’s in his other. As the forest vanished, he braced himself.

They reappeared behind a leaning shed. Malfoy yanked his hand free, glaring daggers.

“This way,” said Mr. Weasley and then, as they walked around the shed, in a louder voice, “Molly! Molly, he’s here!”

There was a great outcry and suddenly Harry’s vision was flooded with a great flood of people. He was thumped on the back, hugged —

“Bless the stars! You’re alive! You’re alive!” 

The wave of people drew him across a lawn and into a squat farmhouse. Harry seized Malfoy’s hand again to keep them from being separated. He wasn’t confident that Robards would hold his word. Malfoy seemed to think the same thing for, this time, he didn’t yank free.

They entered a narrow hall, voices bouncing and shouting and laughing and —

Harry froze. At the top of a staircase stood three people.

Harry’s jaw went slack. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia huddled close together on the top stair, as if they feared Harry would charge up the staircase and attack them, but Dudley stared at Harry in a way he’d never done before. Like he was happy to see him. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the wave of people swept Harry on and into a kitchen. He was pushed into a chair and food was loaded onto a plate. Harry’s ears tried to tease apart the joyful exuberance, but it was impossible; the loudest victory party in Gryffindor house couldn’t compare. And there were so many people — Dedalus and Hestia; Professors Flitwick, Slughorn and Sprout; even Trelawney, glittering like a bespectacled moth; Luna and …

Across the table Ginny was radiant, sandwiched between Bill and Fleur.

Harry stood and the sudden movement made the festivities faultier.

“Bathroom,” he muttered.

“Down the hall, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly.

He half expected them to follow. Malfoy looked at Harry with alarm at being left behind, but Harry didn’t have it in him to be sympathetic. Not when he felt like he was about to fly apart at any second. He hurried past the stairs and into a small bathroom, locking the door behind him. He bent over the sink, turned on the faucet, removed his glasses and splashed cold water onto his face.

A soft rap on the door made him jump.

“Harry?” Hermione said through the wood. “Are you okay?”

_No._

“Yeah,” Harry grunted. “I’m fine.”

“If you … if you want to rest or … or be somewhere quiet, Ron’s room is the third on the left.”

Harry felt a great swell of gratitude for Hermione. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

He heard the floorboards outside the door creak as she moved away. He wiped his face dry with a towel and put his glasses back on. He stared at his reflection and Voldemort’s voice echoed in his mind.

_I never had you._

Here, in the safety of a locked bathroom he could admit it. He could look himself straight on, eyes red and stinging, and admit it.

“Yes, you did.”

He unlocked the bathroom door. The hall was empty. He found Ron’s bedroom easily. Three cots had been squeezed into the small space. He removed Malfoy’s robes, chose the nearest one, and crawled under the sheets.

* * *

“You’re not rooming with me.”

“As if I’d want to.”

“Then get out!”

“ _Ron, you’ll wake him_.”

“Too late,” Harry replied from the depths of the covers.

He emerged to see Hermione, Ron, Malfoy, Luna, George, Lee, and —

Harry’s throat closed up. He didn’t meet Ginny’s gaze as he mumbled, “Got a shirt?”

Ron rummaged in a set of drawers squashed against a wall. He tossed Harry a Chudley Cannons T-shirt and Harry quickly put it on. They sat in awkward silence — or, Harry felt awkward with their eyes upon him. George broke it. He stretched out his hand.

“Great to have you back, mate.”

Harry smiled. He shook George’s hand, which morphed into a bear hug.

“Lee and I have to get going. Those Muggles don’t move themselves. You stay put, now,” he added cheerfully. “Give us poor blighters at least an hour believing you’re safe.”

Harry laughed. “Sure thing.”

“See you later, Harry,” said Lee.

“Yeah. See you.”

Harry did not miss the uncomfortable expressions on Ron’s and Hermione’s and Ginny’s faces as they watched George and Lee depart the tiny, crowded room.

“Mum’s not going to like that they’re leaving again so soon,” said Ron when the door had clicked shut behind George.

“ _I_ don’t like it,” said Ginny.

“They haven’t been caught yet,” Hermione reassured them, though she looked just as upset as they did. She turned to Harry. “We’ve been helping Muggles and Muggleborns —”

“And goblins,” Ron added.

“And anyone else who wants to leave,” Ginny included, “because why would anyone want to stay in England.”

“Yes, well … It’s dangerous,” said Hermione. “Obviously. George and Lee had been procuring potion ingredients, but after … after McGonagall was captured they offered to take her place. It’s not like anyone can argue against it. Anything anyone does to help is valuable.”

“But you’re worried they’re being risky on purpose,” Harry surmised.

A dark cloud settled over Ron and Ginny.

Luna gently grasped Ginny’s hand. “Everyone grieves differently.”

“He’s trying to get himself killed,” said Ron furiously. “How is that okay?”

“Lee’s with him,” said Hermione, mirroring Luna and taking Ron’s hand. “And Hooch.”

“He won’t even talk about him,” said Ron. “He hasn’t said Fred’s name once.”

Ginny stood. “I’m going with him.”

“What?” Harry and Ron and Hermione said together.

“Don’t even think about it!” said Ron jumping to his feet.

“You heard Hermione! Anything anyone does helps and no one’s letting me do anything! I don’t even have a bounty on my head like Neville and he gets to tail the Minister! It’s not fair! I’m not a child anymore!”

“Neville’s tailing the Minister?” Harry echoed, shocked.

As if on cue, the door banged open and Neville charged into the room.

“Harry!”

“ _Oof._ ”

Harry was engulfed in a tighter hug than the one Hagrid had given him.

“I can’t believe it! I can’t _believe_ it!” Neville released him long enough to stare at him in open amazement. “You’re alive.”

“So are you,” said Harry, just as relieved to see Neville’s beaming, round face.

Neville wasn’t battered and bruised as the last time Harry had seen him. His shoulders had broadened. He’d grown taller. He looked like a warrior.

“Everyone’s going to be so excited when I tell them it’s true,” said Neville.

“Neville’s been stationed at a different safe house,” Hermione explained.

“Where —”

But Malfoy cleared his throat loudly. 

“If you want to do something,” he said, speaking to Ginny as if no one else was in the room, “Potter and I have a job.”

Harry shot Malfoy a warning glare.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Ron growled. “And I told you to get lost.”

Malfoy, who lounged on the cot closest to the window, donned an expression of mocking anguish. “After saving your precious Potter, this is how you treat me?”

“ _Malfoy_ ,” Harry gritted.

“What?” Neville looked from Malfoy to Harry. “He what?”

“That’s right,” said Malfoy maliciously. “And that deserves some _respect_.”

Ron, already tense because of George, clenched his fists.

“One more word, Malfoy. One more word and I’ll —”

“Potter’s going to break my parents out of Azkaban,” said Malfoy smugly.

Synchronized, everyone’s heads swiveled to Harry.

“You’re doing _what_?” Hermione gasped.

“Have you lost your mind?” Ron demanded.

“There are other people in Azkaban who need to be freed too,” said Harry. “McGonagall for starters and I bet there are loads more.” Harry remembered all too well Umbridge’s list waning and waxing and Voldemort’s casual comment of Azkaban brimming … “We can do a lot of good if we break open Azkaban.”

“Like my dad,” said Luna quietly.

“But …” Hermione grappled, looking from Luna to Harry, as if hoping someone would shout ‘ _Kidding!_ ’ “But it’s _Azkaban_. Even an Azkaban not controlled by You-Know-Who is impossible to break into.”

“Sirius broke out,” said Harry.

“He transformed! And even that could have been a disaster.”

“But it wasn’t,” said Harry. “All we have to do is get in.”

“And then what?” Hermione demanded. “This will be a hundred times worse than the Ministry. Even if we manage to sneak past the dementors, they’ll know something’s wrong when we start breaking open cells!”

“We tell them it’s an order,” said Harry.

“You lost me,” said Ron.

An idea was slowly forming in Harry’s brain.

“Fudge visited Sirius. He said he was … making a routine check or something. The Minister can probably go anywhere he wants, so if one of us is transfigured —”

“— to look like Thicknesse,” said Ron, cottoning on, “we’d be given a full pass.” He turned to Hermione. “The Cloak.”

Harry looked at Hermione sharply. His heart quickened as she pulled her beaded handbag form her pocket and pulled from its cavernous depths his invisibility cloak. Harry took it, letting the sleek material slide over his hands. Like the holly, he’d thought he’d lost it forever.

“How did you …?”

“I picked it up at the battle,” said Hermione simply.

“We won’t be able to sneak anyone out under it,” said Ginny. “The moment the dementors know a cell’s empty, our cover will be blown.”

“What if there was a distraction?” said Neville.

“It would have to be a hell of a distraction,” said Malfoy.

Harry, Hermione, Ron and Ginny all shared the same look.

“Has George left yet?” Harry asked.

Ginny vanished through the door in a flash, her long red hair a rippling curtain.

* * *

Ginny managed to grab George just in time as he’d been waylaid in the foyer by Mrs. Weasley. Back in Ron’s bedroom, they relayed the skeleton of their plan and the old mischievous gleam came back to George’s eyes.

“Breaking into Azkaban?” He rubbed his hands together. “Should have known the moment you came back you’d pull something crazy like this.”

“A few crates of fireworks should make a sizable distraction,” said Harry, ignoring the unease in his gut at George’s words. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to get hurt because of an impromptu deal with Malfoy.

Lee shook his head and George said, “They would, except the shop got torn down. Everything in it was either confiscated or destroyed. I think You-Know-Who didn’t care so much for You-Know-Poo.”

“Can you make more?” Neville asked.

“Give me a couple weeks.”

“A couple?” said Malfoy incredulously.

“Yeah,” said George. “Though you can always stroll into Azkaban yourself and ask them all nice to let them go. Maybe they’d do it for a kiss.”

Malfoy glared and Ron laughed.

“This is crazy,” Hermione said wildly. “You realize someone has to get a hair from Thicknesse?”

“I can —” Harry began.

“No,” said everyone in the room.

“I’ll do it,” said Neville.

Panicking, Hermione said, “But what about Polyjuice? What are we going to say to Slughorn?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I take potions off him all the time.”

“You what?” said Hermione, scandalized. She pulled out a long roll of parchment from her pocket. “Which ones? Ginny, if you take potions without telling me then my inventory log is completely useless!”

“Sorry,” said Ginny stuffing her fists into her pockets. “It was only a couple calming droughts for Mum. You know how she doesn’t want to ask for anything. I figured we could all do with a few spoonfuls in our tea.”

Harry looked down into the mug of tea Ginny had in fact brought up. The pot was still warm and steaming on the dresser.

“Did you slip anything else in?” Malfoy asked, eying his own cup uneasily.

“Annoy me enough,” Ginny replied dangerously.

“Fine!” said Hermione feverishly. “We still don’t know how we’re getting to the island.”

“By boat,” said Malfoy, as if this was obvious. “They bring the prisoners to the island by boat. We take one.”

“And once we’re there?” Hermione asked.

Everyone looked at each other.

“Right.” Hermione breathed heavily through her nose.

“How are the cells locked?” Harry asked. “Are they like Gringotts’ vaults where a goblin can only access them? Or are there keys? Can we just use Alohomora?”

Malfoy shrugged.

“We don’t know enough about how the prison works,” said Harry, frustrated. “We can’t go in blind. We need insight. We need someone who …” He fell silent, staring unseeing, at the opposite wall.

“Mate?” said Ron nervously. “You okay?”

“We need someone who’s been in Azkaban,” said Harry, astounded it had taken him so long to realize the solution. “We need Hagrid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking into Azkaban? What could possibly go wrong? 
> 
> In regards to Harry’s holly, it’s lost. I don’t think I'll be able to find a suitable place to go into lengths about how it was lost in this fic. Perhaps it may be possible in a future sequel, but even then, I’m not holding my breath. I’ll go into further reasons as to why I decided to do this later on. Don’t want to give away spoilers. :D


	10. Chapter 10

Plans made, they dispersed, but not before Harry made one final request.

“I don’t think we should tell anyone about this.”

“If Mum found out,” said George in agreement, “she’d lock us in the cellar and throw away the key.” 

“My lips are sealed,” Neville promised as Luna nodded.

Harry turned to Hermione who looked deeply conflicted.

“Hermione?”

“Oh, Harry!” she cried. “We’re going to get ourselves killed!”

“You don’t have to do this,” said Harry without judgment. “None of you do. This was between Malfoy and me. It doesn’t have to involve you.”

“Bollocks,” said George easily.

“But if we tell Kingsley—” Hermione began.

“If Kingsley had the extra man power, the Order would have already attacked Azkaban,” said Ginny fiercely. “You _know_ that, Hermione. Asking them to pull this kind of mission … they’d never do it. But _we_ can.”

The tension did not leave Hermione, but she nodded. “You’re right. You’re right.”

“Then let’s get to work,” said Harry. “George, do you need help with those fireworks?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a few extra hands.”

“I can help,” Luna offered.

“And I think it would be good to have some potions on hand,” Harry added. “They’ll be weak.”

“I’ll get them,” said Ginny.

“Oh, no you won’t,” said Hermione severely. “We’ve got at least two weeks until the fireworks are ready. That’s plenty of time to make what we need. Come on.”

Ginny rolled her eyes as Hermione marched her from the room.

“I’d best be off,” said Neville, rising as well. “I’ve got a hair to steal.”

“Be careful,” said Harry. “Take this.” He passed Neville the Cloak.

A bit surprised, yet grateful, Neville gave him a smile and left.

“What are you going to tell Hooch?” Ron asked George.

George shrugged. “I’ll say Mum convinced me to play it safe. She’s been trying hard enough.”

“I guess Hooch’ll have to get another partner,” said Ron. To Harry he added, “Kingsley doesn’t like us splitting up.”

“I’ll go with her,” said Lee.

George looked at Lee in alarm.

“You’ll what?”

“You don’t need me,” said Lee. “You’ll have those fireworks done in no time. I’d just be standing around. I’m going to help Hooch.”

“But …”

“Don’t worry,” said Lee brightly. “I’ll be fine. See you soon.”

Lee waved farewell, leaving George staring after him. Luna stepped up beside him.

“Do you want to make them in the attic?”

George looked at Luna blankly.

“The fireworks,” she clarified. “I think the attic might be the safest place to make them.”

“Yeah,” George replied. “Yeah. Good idea.”

Together they departed. Now it was only Harry, Ron and Malfoy who remained.

“What are you going to say to Hagrid?” Ron asked him.

Harry had no idea how he was going to bring up Azkaban. They all knew how much Hagrid disliked talking about his time there.

“I’ll think of something. Any idea where he might be?”

“The woodshed got fixed up to be his hut. None of these rooms are big enough for him. He might be there. Or he could be with Grawp.”

“Grawp’s here too?” said Harry.

“Camping out in the woods. Word of advice, don’t open the window at night. The snoring is unbelievable.”

Now that the room lacked girls, Harry got out of bed and Ron fished about in the dresser again for a pair of jeans. As Harry climbed into them, the door opened yet again and Robards appeared.

“I’d like a word, Potter.”

“Sure.”

“ _Alone._ ”

Ron inflated but Harry gave him a swift, reassuring look.

“I’ll be outside,” said Ron.

As Robards shifted slightly to let Ron past, he added, “That means you too, Malfoy. Kingsley’s waiting for you downstairs. Seems to think you’ve got information worth hearing.” From his sneer, Robards wasn’t so confident Malfoy’s intel would be fruitful.

Malfoy didn’t look thrilled at the prospect, either, but he acquiesced.

“Now, then,” said Robards, shutting the door behind Malfoy. He focused his hard stare upon Harry. “I’m going to get right to it. You’re used to doing things your way. I get that. You’ve been singled out and Scrimgeour wasn’t exactly the most tactful at getting your assistance, but we’re on thin ice here. I can’t have someone getting wild ideas and risking the safety of this organization, so if you can’t play by our rules there’s the door.”

Harry kept his face impassive. His instinct to keep the Azkaban operation secret was proving correct.

“I understand.”

“Good,” said Robards. He crossed his arms. “Now tell me more about this _miraculous_ escape.”

“I already did,” said Harry. “Vol — You-Know-Who captured me.”

“When?”

“During the battle.”

“He blew up the Great Hall as a smoke screen just so he could lock you up?” Robards’ eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “I’ve got a lot of problems with that.”

Harry stayed silent.

“For instance, if he had you locked up all this time, why did he have Death Eaters scattered across Britain, trying to find you?”

“I don’t know why he kept it a secret,” said Harry. “Maybe you should ask him.”

Robards smiled.

“And Malfoy just _happened_ to find you?”

“Yes,” said Harry shortly.

“And broke you out under You-Know-Who’s nose all because he thinks you’re going to free his parents from Azkaban?”

“If you don’t believe me, that’s fine, but don’t expect me to tell you anything different.”

Robards’ smile became more like a gnash of teeth.

“People talk about you like you’re a hero. Like you’re the next best thing since Merlin.” His voice hardened as much as his eyes. “But I can tell right off that you’re no saint.”

“I’ve never claimed to be,” said Harry coolly.

Robards’ smile sharpened. “Excellent. Saints have no place in wars. I lead a crew. I’d like you on it.”

Harry’s heartbeat sped up. “Doing what?”

“Taking back what’s ours,” said Robards. “Each Death Eater we whittle down is a victory.” He laughed. “Most we find are out looking for Longbottom. I was starting to think that boy was more wanted than you, but since you say you were already captured … Maybe You-Know-Who was stocking up for a double execution.”

“The Death Eaters you capture,” Harry asked, “do you kill them?”

“One less Death Eater is what I say,” Robards replied.

“Then thanks, but no thanks,” said Harry.

Robards’ face colored. “Now listen here, Potter —”

“How many of the Death Eaters you’ve killed have been under the Imperius Curse?” Harry demanded, thinking of Stan Shunpike. “Do you even bother to check?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job!” Robards barked. “While you’ve been taking a four month long nap, we’ve been risking our lives! We’re losing, Potter. People are dying every single, goddamned day and you don’t seem to give a flying fuck.”

“What’s going on in here?” asked Mr. Weasley, alarmed. Altered by the sounds, he’d opened Harry’s door.

“Nothing,” Robards spat, glaring at Harry. “Absolutely nothing.”

He stalked from the room.

“What was all that about?” Mr. Weasley pressed, but Harry shook his head, echoing Robards.

“Nothing.”

Mr. Weasley frowned, but he let it drop.

“You missed breakfast and lunch and … well, you know Molly. She was getting worried. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.”

“Harry, if you need to talk, about anything, Molly and I are here for you.”

Harry’s throat constricted. The last four and half months flooded his mind.

“I’m okay, Mr. Weasley. Really.”

* * *

Only two people were in the kitchen.

Harry stood in the doorway, staring at Dudley, who sat at the kitchen table, shelling peas. Dudley saw him and froze. Noticing the lack of peas falling into the bowl, Mrs. Weasley turned round from the sink.

“Harry!” She crossed the stone floor and hugged him tight. “Would you like something to eat?”

Harry’s stomach let out a grumble before he could answer. Mrs. Weasley laughed.

“I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Harry pulled up a chair at the table and Dudley hunched over his bowl, shelling the peas so rapidly they sounded like gunfire. Harry watched, slightly dumbfounded. In all their years together, Harry had never seen Dudley so much as slice a tomato.

“Here you are.” Mrs. Weasley set a ham sandwich before Harry. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she asked Dudley, “Would you like another, Dudley?”

Dudley shook his head.

“Are you sure? I have everything out.”

Again, Dudley shook his head. If he grew anymore hunched, he’d fall face first into the bowl. Mrs. Weasley floated a fat jar of pickles and a jug of juice to the table. The pitcher tipped on its own accord, filling a glass. Dudley’s eyes followed its every movement.

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry.

“You’re welcome, dear.” She gazed at him fondly, her eyes over bright. “You’re probably already sick of hearing it, but we’re so relieved you’re all right. We feared the worst.” She looked close to tears, but she blinked them back with a warm smile. “I bet the laundry’s done. I should check.” She hurried off, leaving Harry and Dudley alone.

An awkward silence fell and Harry took a great bite of sandwich to try to mask it. Mouth full, he glanced upward and found Dudley watching him openly. Dudley gave a little start and stared back down into his bowl, cheeks flaming.

“Did he torture you?”

Dudley spoke so quietly that, at first, Harry thought he’d misheard. He swallowed his mouthful.

“Not as much as I thought he would.”

As had happened at Privet Drive, that same strange expression came over Dudley, as if he grappled with some internal conflict. His jaws clenched and the two meaty fists holding a pod turned into fists. It took a moment for Harry to understand why Dudley was upset and then another moment to absorb the incredibleness. He sat, staggered, unsure what to say.

“It never should have happened,” Dudley blurted, glaring into his bowl. “You should have … you should have been here.”

“Harry, what’s taking so — oh.” Appearing in the doorway, Ron came up short. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Dudley made no comment. He twisted the pod and more peas joined the mound.

And it suddenly struck Harry. The Dursleys had been here for over a year, with Dedalus and Hestia and now the Weasleys and Order members. The very thing they had tried to eradicate from their lives now ran rampant. He wondered how Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were handling it.

Not well, he guessed, but Dudley …

Dudley had been with Mrs. Weasley, helping her prep dinner. Dudley hadn’t flinched when the juice jug filled Harry’s glass, but watched it with … curiosity. And in that moment, Harry looked at his cousin in a brand new light. If Dudley could change …

_Don’t be stupid. Voldemort will always be Voldemort._

Ron was speaking and it took a moment for Harry to catch up.

“Sorry?”

“Hagrid’s in the shed. I just saw him go in.”

“Good.” Harry stood, abandoning the rest of his sandwich. He felt a strong compulsion to offer Dudley an invite, but something held him back. “See you around.”

Dudley gave a tight nod.

He and Ron exited the house, heading toward a building next to a wide patch of trees. Buckbeak scratched his talons along the forest line, searching for worms. Harry’s heart lifted at the sight of the hippogriff. The rustling of leaves caused Buckbeak to look up and around as a woman dressed in a long flowery nightdress and fluffy slippers appeared from around an overgrown shrub.

“Neville’s mum’s here?” said Harry, recognizing her.

“And dad,” said Ron. As he spoke, a thin, tall man shuffled into sight behind the bush, trailing after his wife. He plucked a flower from a stem and tried to hand it to her, but she had become distracted by a butterfly.

“You-Know-Who’s been on a rampage trying to find Neville,” Ron explained in a low voice, “for killing Nagini. Neville was worried he’d use his mum and dad to get to him so we got them out of St. Mungo’s. The hospital isn’t safe, by the way. Nowhere is. He controls everything.”

Mrs. Longbottom tripped after the fluttering butterfly, smiling like a wide-eyed toddler. Buckbeak watched her pass him before returning to his worm hunt.

“Neville thought it would be safest for them here. They seem to like it,” Ron added. They moved across the lawn, past the Longbottoms and Buckbeak and Ron asked, “What did Robards want?”

“He wants me to join his Death Eater killing crew.”

Ron looked at him sharply. “And?”

“I told him no,” said Harry.

Ron didn’t immediately respond, but then, quietly, “They are killing us.”

“I’m not going to be like them,” said Harry firmly. “I won’t become a murderer.”

Something close to relief appeared on Ron’s face. “I thought about it,” he admitted. “When Robards showed up, he tried to get Hermione and me. I wanted to say yes. I was so angry. I thought you were dead and I wanted to rip everything to shreds, but that anger … it scared me.”

“I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

Ron cracked a sideways grin. “Not your fault. So … how _did_ you escape?”

“I told you. Malfoy —”

“Come on, Harry. You can tell me.” 

Harry kept his voice composed. “I did. Malfoy saved me.”

He sped up his pace and stepped up to the shed’s door, giving it a knock before Ron could press him further. It opened and Hagrid’s beaming face appeared.

“Harry! Come in! Come in!”

The shed wasn’t as cozy as his hut at Hogwarts. There were no pheasants or long, glistening ropes of unicorn hair dangling from the ceiling; there wasn’t a patchwork quilt on the bed in the corner; but the moment Harry entered, Fang let out a great bark and jumped at him, trying to lick his ears.

“Down, Fang!” Hagrid grunted. “ _Down_ , yeh fool.”

But Harry was laughing, laughing in a manner he hadn’t in a long time. So much had changed and, yet, so very little. They settled at a table that looked more like an enormous block of tree stump. Hagrid brewed a large pot of tea and even offered his famous rock cookies.

“I keep trying ter give yer mum the recipe,” Hagrid told Ron as Harry attempted to soften his in his mug in hopes of it not cracking a molar, “but I’m always forgetting.”

“That’s too bad,” said Ron.

Hagrid missed the sarcasm.

“Where’s Hermione?” Hagrid asked.

“She and Ginny are helping Slughorn,” said Harry.

“Sure about tha?” Hagrid asked.

He waggled his bushy eyebrows at Harry and his eyes flitted to the window. Harry and Ron turned in their seats. Ginny was looking through the glass. She waved her hand at Harry, clearly wanting to speak to him.

“Something wrong?” Harry asked, stepping back out of the shed and leaving Ron with Hagrid. “Is Slughorn asking questions?”

“No,” Ginny answered. “He’s delighted to have extra hands. I … I wanted to talk. Can we go somewhere alone?”

Both Ron and Hagrid were staring out the window.

“Sure,” said Harry.

They walked around to the back of the shed and Harry thought they would continue along the tree line, but Ginny grabbed him by the arm and pushed him against the shed’s wall, kissing him.

Harry pushed her away. She looked startled.

“Sorry —” Harry gasped. “But I — I don’t think we —”

Ginny’s surprise turned into alarm. “Are you okay?”

Harry wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. When was the last time he’d actually been _okay_?

“You shouldn’t want me,” Harry told her.

Her expression changed yet again. Now to indignation. “I thought you were _dead_. When you vanished during the battle … I thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She gripped his arms, squeezing them. “I’m not an idiot. I know what it means to love you.”

Harry’s stomach clenched.

“Don’t you think I know how fragile life is?” she raged in a quiet voice. “Fred’s dead and any one of us could be next. I’m not going to hold onto my feelings and sit in a corner, waiting for a better time. I love you, Harry.”

Harry knew she expected him to say the words back and a desperate part of him wanted to … the part that had existed before the Drift, the part that had never felt the touch of Voldemort’s lips.

And now … free to leave Voldemort behind, free to be with Ginny … Harry’s voice deserted him.

He didn’t have to say anything; Ginny saw it all over his face.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t … oh …”

“I think you’re amazing.” Now he was the one gripping her arms. “I think you’re the most incredible witch I’ve ever met.”

“More incredible than Hermione?” Ginny asked in a feeble attempt at humor, ruined by the tremble in her voice.

“I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t met you,” said Harry. “And I’m sorry that I don’t feel the way I used to, but that doesn’t change how much I care about you.”

Ginny’s smile was all pain, but even through the hurt, she kept her voice feather light with banter.

“Met that veela after all, huh?”

“Gin …”

“It’s okay,” she said swiftly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

She walked quickly away, vanishing back around the side of the shed.

“What the _hell_ was that?”

Harry whipped around. Malfoy stepped into sight behind a large water barrel.

“Get lost, Malfoy.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Malfoy demanded, striding up to Harry. “She may be a Weasley, but she’s still a looker.”

“Why do you care?” asked Harry angrily. “She’s a _Weasley_ , after all.”

Malfoy didn’t take the bait. His eyes widened, staring at Harry in astonishment.

“The Dark Lord was _that_ good?”

Harry turned beet red.

“ _Merlin, Potter.”_

“Shut up.”

The insult bounced right off Malfoy, his whole attitude changing with the swiftness of a finger snap. He looked suddenly elated.

“But Potter — don’t you see? This is brilliant! If you go back to the Dark Lord” — Alarmed, Harry looked around to make sure they were alone — “you can convince him to let my parents go!”

“You’ve lost your mind,” said Harry.

“No, listen to me!” said Malfoy excitedly. “He cared enough to let you go, right? He cared enough not to kill you. You’ve got _influence_.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! My Mum did it all the time. A little sweet talk —”

“Compare me to a girl one more time and I’ll break your nose.”

“Why are you ignoring what you’ve got? The Dark Lord wants you — you can make a deal. You can make things better.”

“No, I can’t!” Harry felt sick. “I’m not going to be his goddamned trophy.”

“But —”

“Shut the fuck up!” Harry roared, inches from Malfoy’s face. “You’re getting what you want, aren’t you? So leave my life alone.”

His shoulder slammed into Malfoy’s as he pushed past. He didn’t go back into the shed and he didn’t return to the farmhouse. He marched into the forest, following a path of broken branches.

* * *

“Robes, strengthening solutions, Extendable Ears, Polyjuice …” Hermione’s voice trailed off under her breath as she checked her notes yet again. Harry felt like he’d been transported back in time to when they’d been planning to infiltrate the Ministry. They were in the attic. Two full weeks had passed. George, Luna, Ron and Ginny were packing away the last of the fireworks, Hermione was checking and double-checking supplies and Malfoy was drumming his fingers against the dust-crusted window.

Ron had been the one to broach the subject of Azkaban with Hagrid. The dementors patrolled the prison, but wizards were also on staff.

_“To keep those ruddy monsters from kissing everyone in sight.”_

Now that Harry thought about it, such a requirement made sense. Even Voldemort had needed to intercede.

Malfoy straightened, looking out the window. “Longbottom’s back.”

Ginny reached the attic’s trap door first and let down the ladder. Distantly, they heard Neville’s voice travel through the house. It didn’t take long before he was climbing the ladder.

“Got it.”

“Took long enough,” said Malfoy.

Hermione took the small bottle from Neville. In it was a single dark hair. Everyone looked at Harry.

“Tomorrow’s the day. We should turn in early.”

Hermione put the hair carefully away in her beaded handbag, along with the rest of their supplies.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Harry asked Neville.

Neville passed him back his Cloak. “I can do it. I can play him.”

Malfoy stepped forward. “I’m coming.”

“No, you’re not,” said Harry.

“They’re _my_ parents,” said Malfoy furiously.

“I want to come too,” said Luna.

“We’ve been over this,” said Harry impatiently. “If all of us vanish, everyone will notice. You’ve got to stay to be our cover.”

“And the wizards on patrol will find it strange enough to have the Minister show up unannounced,” Hermione reminded them. “To have a troop along with him —”

“To be fair, he usually does have a troop,” Neville conceded. “It’s why it took me so long to pluck his head. He doesn’t even go to the loo by himself.”

“If Luna’s going then I’m going,” said Ginny.

“None of you are coming,” said Harry. “It’s me, Neville, Hermione, Ron and George. And if you bug me about it one more time, I’m going to hex you.”

Malfoy crossed his arms, looking mutinous. Ginny glared.

“Mrs. Weasley’s getting suspicious enough with how much time we’ve been spending up here,” Harry went on. “It’s up to you three to make sure no one knows we’re gone.”

“Four.”

They spun around. Dudley’s head poked up through the trap door. Dudley had mainly stayed away, keeping himself at a distance from Harry and the others.

“Have you been spying on us?” George asked, more intrigued than critical.

“A bit,” Dudley conceded.

* * *

Morning came on swift wings. Harry didn’t sleep and the usual snores that issued from Ron’s side of the room were absent. When the bedside alarm rang, Malfoy shut it off so quickly that Harry knew he too had been awake and waiting. They dressed silently.

“Act normal,” Harry reminded them as they traveled down the hall for breakfast. It would be too strange for all of them to miss a meal, so they settled around the kitchen table and tried to force down the eggs and bacon Mrs. Weasley served. Hermione kept putting down her fork and checking her handbag.

As Professor Sprout entered, making a sizable distraction with a bucket load of freshly dug potatoes in need of washing, Harry and the others slipped from the kitchen.

“Be back soon,” Harry whispered in the foyer, to which Malfoy, Ginny, Luna and Dudley gave tense nods.

Out the door, they hurried across Professor Sprout’s vegetable patch and into the forest. When they had almost reached the edge of the wards, Harry turned to Hermione, but she was already elbow-deep inside her handbag.

“Here,” she said, passing Neville a bottle of Polyjuice Potion. Neville put the Minister’s hair into it. It frothed furiously and turned a brown so dark it could have been black. He swallowed it in one go.

“ _Gah!_ ”

He doubled up, gasping. With no interest in watching the gruesome transformation, Harry took the bag from Hermione and pulled out the robes Luna had pinched from the laundry as Hermione focused on transfiguring herself, Ron and George. She removed George’s hair and gave him a thick, pointed beard. Ron’s hair became black, short and bristled. A mustache covered his upper lip.

“Why do you always give me a mustache?” he complained. “It itches.”

“Not as much as this beard,” George grumbled, rubbing a hairy cheek. “I don’t know how Hagrid stands it.”

“Oh, cry me a river,” Hermione snapped waspishly. With short, rigid flicks, her hair turned blonde and sleek; she rolled it into a tight bun. Her nose grew, her lips plumped and freckles splattered across her face in a wide band. 

“I am _never_ drinking Polyjuice again.”

Instead of Neville Longbottom, Pius Thicknesse, Minister of Magic, stood. They changed into the robes Harry held out. Neville had altered his pair with intricate golden braids and medallions. He looked quite the part.

Hermione checked her watch as everyone inserted Extendable Ears.

“One hour until it wears off. We must leave Azkaban at five minutes to ten.”

They stared at each other for half a heartbeat and then Harry pulled his invisibility cloak over his head, George pocketed Hermione’s handbag, stocked with fireworks, and five loud cracks of Apparition shot through the trees.

Ocean air ruffled Harry’s hair. He held the Cloak tightly in the whipping wind. They stood on an empty and depressingly gray dock, but it was nothing compared to the grayness of the large rock-like island before them and the granite-black fortress upon it.

Azkaban.

Neville stepped up to the dock’s edge and a boat materialized, swaying slightly in the water.

They climbed inside and the boat set off, cutting through the frothing waves to the island. The closer they got, the darker the sky became and the colder the air grew. As the boat docked itself in a harbor, Harry actually saw ice on the slicked boards. Already, he heard the faint screams of his mother’s final moments and he wasn’t even inside the prison.

They clambered out of the boat, being careful not to slip on the ice.

“Should we … er … knock?” George asked, eying the heavy door.

But the door opened before they reached it and a wizard strode out. A dementor hovered just behind him.

“Minister,” said Rabastan Lestrange. “I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

Harry cut his eyes to Neville, but Thicknesse’s face was perfectly calm.

“The Dark Lord has requested a collection of prisoners,” said Neville. “I am here to fetch them.”

Lestrange looked puzzled. “The Dark Lord has not informed me of this.”

“Perhaps he did not see the need to,” Neville replied. “He also instructed me to pass along my report.”

“Report?”

“It is not as dire as you make it sound,” said Neville congenially. “Hunt and Kellen will do a quick walk around, just to see that things are functioning to order.”

“The Dark Lord is content with how I run Azkaban,” said Lestrange, eyes hardening. “I do not need” — he took in Ron and George scathingly — “Ministry lackeys nosing about.”

“The Dark Lord ordered it,” said Neville simply. “If you do not believe me or, gracious, wish to deny us, I will have to inform him and —”

“No,” said Lestrange quickly. “I — of course not. If the Dark Lord so wishes … come in.”

“Thank you,” said Neville.

Neville strode past Lestrange and the dementor, entering the prison with cool composure. Harry was impressed. The rest of them followed; Harry swiftly slipped in before Lestrange snapped the door shut. It was like stepping into a freezer — no, it was like stepping into the Drift. The cold sunk into Harry, chilling his heart. He became light headed as his mother’s voice grew louder. Harry gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus.

“Are you going to be able to do this?” Hermione had asked him during one of the rare moments they’d found themselves alone and free of Malfoy.

“I’m not leaving McGonagall in there,” Harry had replied.

Sooty torches lined grime-caked stone walls.

“Which prisoner does the Dark Lord want?” Lestrange asked.

“Four prisoners, actually,” said Neville crisply. “Xenophilius Lovegood —”

“Lovegood?” Lestrange asked. “What’s the Dark Lord want with that crackpot?”

Neville shrugged. “I am simply relaying our Lord’s demands. Xenophilius Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, and Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy.”

Lestrange’s eyes lit up. “Sounds like an execution.”

“Perhaps,” said Neville.

Lestrange snapped his finger at the dementor beside him. “You heard him.” And then to Neville as the dementor floated away: “We can wait in my office.”

Hermione made a short cough in the back of her throat.

“The inspection, Rabastan,” said Neville politely.

Irritated, Lestrange’s lips twisted. “Very well.”

“Off you go,” said Neville with a little pompous flick of his fingers at Ron and George.

They departed down an icy side corridor and Harry followed Neville and Hermione as they filed into an iron-gray elevator. The grills clanged shut behind Lestrange and up they went. Was it just Harry’s imagination, or was it getting colder?

The lift came to a stop, the grills slid back and Harry grabbed onto Hermione’s hand for support.

Before them was a long stretch of hall. A door was every five feet and before each door, stood a dementor. Hermione’s hand was trembling. She squeezed Harry’s hand hard before releasing him. They walked down the corridor. Harry kept his eyes on the back of Hermione’s head.

_Don’t look at them. Don’t look at them._

But he could hear their rattling breathing. Prisoners must reside behind each door, but not a sound issued within the cells.

_“They all went quiet in the end … except when they shrieked in their sleep …”_

At the end of the hall, Lestrange turned into a large and orderly office. He shut the door behind them and a fraction of the cold lessened. Harry didn’t have a clue how Lestrange could appear so relaxed. Neville must have been thinking the same thing, for, as Lestrange settled behind his desk, he said, “I don’t envy you. I wouldn’t last a day in your position.”

Lestrange smiled, pleased.

“I don’t mind Azkaban.”

Thicknesse’s large forehead wrinkled in surprise.

“But you were imprisoned.”

 _For the torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom_ , Harry imagined Neville finishing silently. Hermione shot Neville a nervous glance.

“And now I run the roost,” said Lestrange with satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. “There’s nothing more thrilling than watching the Kiss. Do you know if that’s what the Dark Lord is planning for those traitors?” His eyes gleamed. “Shall I send a few dementors along?”

“No,” said Hermione before Neville could answer. “That will not be necessary.”

“Pity,” said Lestrange.

The door opened and the burst of cold air pierced Harry like a knife. The dementor had returned. In its rotting, scabbed hand was a heavy chain. It led the prisoners into the office. The chain was attached to thick, metal collars on each of their throats. Harry didn’t give a damn about Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy and he wasn’t feeling too fondly toward Xenophilius, but McGonagall … even desperately thin, there was strength in her eyes. The glare she bestowed Lestrange scorched.

“What is this?” Mr. Malfoy asked, shaking all over. “What are you doing, Lestrange?”

“I am delivering you to our Lord.”

Mrs. Malfoy flinched, Mr. Malfoy lost the little color he had left, and Xenophilius let out a terrified whimper, crumpling. He collapsed, forcing the others to bend over double as the chain yanked on their necks.

“Up!” Lestrange strode around his desk and kicked Xenophilius. “Shame your time’s up, Lovegood. You were such fun to play with. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get hold of your daughter next.”

Xenophilius let out a battle cry. With more energy than Harry would have thought the frail wizard had, he lunged at Lestrange.

“Crucio!”

“The Dark Lord wants them alive, Lestrange,” said Neville tensely, but Lestrange did not stop the torture. He grinned at Neville.

“Alive. Not sane.”

Harry grabbed the back of Neville’s robes.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hissed in Neville’s ear.

“We have a tight schedule, Mr. Lestrange,” said Hermione shrilly, but severe enough to make him finally lift his wand.

“So be it,” he replied grudgingly, as if Hermione had spoiled him out of a treat.

Already bent double from the pull of the chain, McGonagall took hold of Xenophilius’ arm, helping him rise to his feet.

“We’re all set,” issued Ron’s voice in Harry’s ear through the Extendable. “Meet you at the entrance.”

“Thank you for the prisoners,” said Hermione. She took the chain from the dementor and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Lestrange asked. He looked at Hermione strangely.

“To the boats,” said Hermione, keeping her voice as official as possible.

And in that instant, Harry knew they’d messed up.

“Stupify!” Neville shouted.

Lestrange reacted too fast, blocking the spell.

“Expel —”

Lestrange whipped his wand and Hermione was flung backward. She hit the office wall hard.

Still under the Cloak, Harry shouted, “Stupify!” but it missed as Lestrange dodged a jinx from Neville.

Hair falling out of her bun and blood dribbling down the side of her face, Hermione snatched up her wand.

“Confringo!”

Snarling, Lestrange diverted the ball of fire, sending it at Neville and Harry. They dove for cover behind the desk, barely avoiding it.

“Bitch,” Lestrange snarled. He drew back his wand for another attack, but was knocked aside by the dementor. Mrs. Malfoy screamed as it swept down upon her.

“NARCISSA!” Mr. Malfoy grabbed the dementor, trying to pull it off his wife, but it ignored him. Its rotting hands closed on either side of her skull, lifting her up to its hooded face.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The Stag erupted from Harry’s wand. Its antlers hit the dementor straight in the back. It released Mrs. Malfoy and flew from the office. The patronus charged after it.

Realization flashed across Lestrange’s face. “Bombarda!” he roared.

The desk was blasted to smithereens. The force of the explosion threw Harry and Neville. The Cloak slipped from his shoulders. Huddled in a corner, McGonagall, Xenophilius and the Malfoys stared in shock at Harry. Neville, bleeding, groped for his wand in the wreckage of the desk. Hermione aimed her wand, but she was too slow. Lestrange bared his teeth in a terrible smile. He pushed back the sleeve of his robe and slammed his hand upon the Dark Mark inked upon his forearm.

**xXx**

He pressed Harry up against the cave’s stone wall, kissing him so deeply that Harry’s voice was muffled but Voldemort still heard the low, aching moan. Harry leaned up into him, and then, as if coming to his senses, or perhaps, growing too overwhelmed, he flattened his hands against Voldemort’s chest and pushed.

“Just — give — me — a — second.”

This wasn’t healthy, but Voldemort couldn’t stop himself. Some people drowned themselves in whiskey. He drowned himself in memories. He watched as it played out, as his past self took Harry’s hand and led him to a stretch of stone floor and Harry —

Harry fumbled, nearly missing Voldemort’s lips as he drew him in for another kiss because Voldemort was nothing more than a phantom to him, an invisible essence that took form only against his skin. A fantasy. A fiction. A lie.

_“And now you face me, like a man … straight-backed and proud, the way your father died …”_

Voldemort shut his eyes against the sharpness that seared hot and white, deep in his chest.

Harry — _so young_ — fell to the ground, screaming.

“Stop it,” Voldemort gritted as the memory around him swirled.

Harry — fifteen. Broken and bleeding and wishing he was dead —

_“Stop —”_

_“You’re the worst thing in my life!”_

“STOP!”

The cave vanished; the pedestal holding the Pensive wobbled. Voldemort clutched it, not to keep it from tipping over, but to keep himself standing. The pain … _the pain_.

It reached such a peak that he dropped to his knees. It became a choke-hold, strangling him. He must have blacked out, for when he next opened his eyes, he found himself shivering on the floor, drenched in sweat. He couldn’t move —

And then a different sensation sparked inside him as a Dark Mark was activated, bringing with a clear message. _Azkaban under attack_. For a moment, Voldemort believed the pain had addled his brain.

Azkaban under attack? Who would possibly …

_Harry._

It was like a shot of adrenaline. Voldemort clambered to his feet and leapt from a window, flying into the morning light. He hoped he wasn’t too late.


	11. Chapter 11

The moment Lestrange touched his Dark Mark, a Caterwauling Charm erupted over the prison.

“What the fuck’s going on?” George shouted through the Extendable in Harry’s ear.

“You-Know-Who’s coming!” Harry yelled back. “Set them off.”

“What?”

“ _Set — them — off!_ ”

Ropes shot at Harry’s face. He turned them into sticks. Hermione and Neville leapt back to their feet, and a second later, the ground shook violently. In Azkaban’s belly, fireworks were erupting. It felt like an earthquake; the entire building trembled, dust and mortar crumbling from the ceiling. If they could get to the seashore — hell, if they could get to a boat — they’d be able to Apparate, but Lestrange blocked the office door.

Lestrange drew back his wand, his blazing eyes upon Harry —

“AVADA — ”

McGonagall lunged at Lestrange.

“Professor!”

The office lit up with a blinding burst of light as Harry, Hermione and Neville fired their spells. Lestrange was flung through the doorway. He hit the wall with a sickening whack. His wand soared in a wide arc. Heart in his throat, Harry stuffed the Cloak into his pocket and scrambled to McGonagall, Neville right behind him, but Hermione reached her first. She was alive. Hermione quickly tapped her wand against the iron band around McGonagall’s neck. It glowed faintly blue and then clicked open and dropped with a heavy clang.

“Potter,” she gasped, clutching her thin chest and staring wide-eyed at Harry. “Potter — you’re — you’re —”

“Please don’t do that again, Professor,” said Harry, helping her to her feet.

Hermione tapped the collars on Xenophilius and Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. They looked petrified.

Harry peeked around the corner as another earth-shuddering explosion rocked the prison. The dementors that had filled the hall, manning the doors, had left. Whether to see to the fireworks or whether they’d been driven away by his patronus, Harry could only guess.

“Alohomora!”

Harry had no idea who he was releasing, but it didn’t matter. Hermione and Neville joined him. As they hurried to the lift at the end of the corridor, they blasted open the cells.

“Quick!” Harry urged as the prisoners stared at him dazed, but the sight of their doors swung wide quickly washed that away.

The lift was crammed and Hermione fished the strengthening solutions she and Ginny had concocted from her handbag, passing them about the group.

“Potter, this is suicide,” McGonagall raged. “There’s no way you’re going to get us out of here alive.”

“I’m glad to see you, too,” Harry replied.

He glanced over his shoulder in time to see her thin, severe mouth twitch into a smile.

“Patronuses at the ready,” he said to Hermione and Neville.

The Malfoys, Xenophilius and the host of waxy prisoners bunched tighter together as Hermione and Neville cast their spells. Hermione’s moonlit otter flickered like a lightbulb but it continued to swim about the crowded elevator. Neville’s face was screwed up and a large, opaque mist bloomed from his wand.

“Sorry,” he grimaced.

“It’s okay,” Harry told him. “Get them to the boat. The moment you can, Apparate.”

The lift continued to rattle its descent and Ron’s voice sounded in Harry’s ear.

“We’ve got a prob —”

He broke off.

“Ron?” Harry pressed the Extendable harder against his ear. “ _Ron?_ ”

Hermione looked ashen. Harry redoubled his grip on his wand.

“Just get them to the boat,” he repeated.

But the cold was sinking in again. Their breath fogged up the lift. Ice spread across the metal doors. How many dementors inhabited Azkaban? A thousand? A hundred thousand?

The grills slid back. Ice shattered as the doors opened to chaos. George’s fireworks rampaged. Chimeras and dragons of red and green blasted a scorching trail as they charged past; Harry pushed back the others so they wouldn’t get burned, but Hermione’s otter darted beneath his arm, chasing away a team of dementors that had turned toward the lift. The dementors seemed more distracted by the fireworks whizzing and sparking about them than frightened, but Harry wasn’t surprised by that. Only one thing scared a dementor and as he stepped out of the elevator, the Stag burst back into sight. It tossed its antlered head, protecting the group as they ran for the exit.

“Ron! Where are you?” Hermione shouted. She flattened her hand against her ear, in hopes of hearing him better over all the noise, but there was no reply through the Extendables.

“Get them to the boat! Get out of here!” Harry ordered as they reached the heavy, black door. “I’ll find —”

An explosion unlike any other knocked them off their feet. A seventeen foot tall hydra of glittering purple smashed through a wall, gnashing its shimmering teeth. Snapping at dementors as they soared around its five heads, it bore down upon Harry and the others.

“Aguamenti!” Hermione yelled.

A jet of water shot at the firework. It shrieked and, shaking a head dry, barreled past them, smashing through another corridor. More prisoners were emerging. It was working. The fireworks were breaking open cells.

“Harry, we can’t leave them behind!” Hermione cried.

“Here! Over here!” Harry roared.

The Stag and Otter and even Neville’s hazy cloud ushered the prisoners their way.

“Hurry!”

They limped and tripped through the door and out onto the harbor. A woman fell to her knees and Harry helped her back up before she was trampled as prisoners ran for their lives. Boats materialized along the harbor and Hermione and Neville tried to keep order for fear of them capsizing, but it was working. It was working.

Harry ran back inside the prison, pushing his way through the throng, looking for Ron and George. Dementors swooped around them like bats, but the patronuses kept them back.

From the rubble opening the hydra had come from, two figures emerged through the dust cloud, arms pumping.

“RUN!” Ron shouted.

Harry saw why. A wave of dementors were at Ron’s and George’s heels. It was more than had been at Hogwarts. It was more than Harry had ever seen. Hermione’s Otter flickered out completely. Neville’s cloud of silver blew away on a billowing wind of freezing cold.

“ _Harry!_ ”

“GO!” he roared at them.

The Stag, shining brighter than molten silver, lowered its head and charged past Ron and George. Harry stayed rooted in place, channeling energy to the Stag, helping it face down the towering wave of black despair. He gritted his teeth, his vision blurring as the wind whipped, freezing him to the point that he couldn’t feel the fingers on his wand.

“Harry!”

But Harry didn’t look round. If the Stag fell then they were all dead. He didn’t know where the Anti-Apparition barrier rested. He just had to give them a little more time. _A little more time._

Harry saw the firecracker a second too late. It zinged straight at his head and he jerked back. He landed hard on the frozen floor and the violet streamer corkscrewed out of sight.

And Azkaban grew suddenly violently dark, as if the sun had been blotted from the sky. The Stag was gone. Like a tsunami, the monstrous wall of dementors surged down upon him — his mother screamed in his ears —

They stopped. In the blackness, a lone figure hovered. His bone-white skin shone like a beacon. He held one arm up, stilling the dementors. They writhed behind him, a rasping nightmare.

Voldemort stared at Harry. Harry stared back.

“HARRY!”

Hermione’s magically magnified voice jolted him, making the muscles in his legs jerk into action. He scrambled to his feet and ran. He sprinted through the door and down the dock. He dove. Ron and Hermione were in a boat. It bobbed and swayed on the waves. The others had Disapparated. Harry didn’t look back. Kicking out, he swam as hard as he could. The boat cut through the water to him. Harry reached up — Ron grabbed his hand — 

He slammed face first into hard ground; leaves showered him, sticking to his clothes. He rose up onto his palms, looking around, sopping wet and freezing. They were back in the woods next to the farmhouse. Ron and Hermione stood over him.

“Did it work?” Harry asked.

Hermione looked close to throwing up. Her white lips were pressed tightly together. She nodded. Harry heard a distant commotion through the trees. He got unsteadily to his feet. He felt jittery. He was shaking. Voldemort’s red eyes were scorched into his brain.

“I can’t believe we’re alive,” Ron rattled. “I can’t believe it. How many dementors do you think that was?”

Hermione turned green. She darted behind a tree and threw up.

“Never again,” she gritted in a low voice as she reappearing around the trunk, pale and trembling. “We are _never_ doing that again.”

**xXx**

“Easy now. Careful. That’s it.”

Bella glared at Mathis as they assisted Rabastan into a chair.

“You’ll need a Healer to look at that shoulder,” Mathis continued. “Dislocations can be tricky.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rabastan snarled.

“What the hell happened?”

Bella turned as Rodolphus marched into the sitting room.

“You’re growing sluggish, brother,” said Rabastan. “Bella arrived in seconds when I called for help. Were you having a pedicure?”

“What happened?” Rodolphus repeated, furious.

“Potter happened,” Rabastan answered.

Rodolphus blinked like an owl. “ _What?_ ”

“I saw him with my own eyes,” said Rabastan, grimacing as he tested his injured shoulder. “He was under that invisibility cloak. He came with others — Order fleas probably. One had impersonated Thicknesse. They claimed the Dark Lord wanted prisoners transported, but they fucked up. They assumed prisoners were taken away by boat.”

“Where is he?” Rodolphus asked. His eyes traveled over them, as if he expected Bella to pull Potter from her pocket. “Did you capture him?”

Rabastan grimaced. “He got away.”

Rodolphus swore.

Rabastan glared down at the carpet. One hand grasped his injured shoulder. He was bloodless. “The Dark Lord will have my hide when I tell him.”

“The Dark Lord didn’t come to your summons?” Rodolphus asked sharply.

“Oh, he came,” said Mathis, making Rabastan and Rodolphus start. “Bella and I saw him. He stopped the dementors from attacking the boy. He let him escape.”

There was instant uproar. Rabastan jumped to his feet. Rodolphus drew his wand.

“I’ll cut out your traitorous tongue!”

“What is traitorous about speaking the truth?” Mathis asked. “Bella saw. She can tell you.”

“I didn’t see anything,” said Bella as the brothers turned to her.

“As you were standing right beside me, I highly doubt that,” said Mathis.

“What were you even doing at Azkaban?” Rodolphus demanded. “You haven’t been given the Mark.”

“I was with Bella,” Mathis replied. “We were questioning a shopkeeper in Knockturn Alley who’s been hiding Muggle-borns in her cellar. Bella felt the Mark burn upon her arm and I offered to join in hopes of assisting in whatever trouble there was. We arrived through the floo, found Rabastan and then … well.” He looked at Bella. “Would you care to tell them?”

Bella’s jaws were clamped shut. Rodolphus’ eyebrows rose into his hairline, watching her.

“Bella …”

“There must have been a reason,” she said tersely. “He’s tracking the boy. He’s using him to uproot the last of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“But wouldn’t it be easier to uproot them if he dangled Potter like a worm on a hook?” Mathis countered. “Wouldn’t the Order come to Potter’s aid if they knew he was captured? Since being in your country, I’ve surmised that they are quite fond of the boy.”

Bella could not think of anything to say to that. Rodolphus’ brow was knitted, taking in Mathis’ words, but Rabastan’s lips twisted into an ugly sneer.

“You must have misunderstood what you saw, Mathis,” said Rabastan. “Potter’s been missing for months. The Dark Lord was simply taken aback by his reappearance. I certainly was.”

Mathis hummed. “Taken aback? Tell me — for the three of you have served our Lord far longer than I have — is the Dark Lord easily caught off guard?” He donned a mean smile when they did not answer. “Would you like to hear what I think? I think Potter has not been missing at all. I think he’s been under our noses all along, stashed away in the sealed West Tower at Hogwarts.”

“Ridiculous!” said Rabastan.

“Were you granted access to that tower?” Mathis asked.

“No,” said Rabastan stiffly.

“Did the Dark Lord tell you or, anyone you know, why it was sealed?”

“I — We do not question the Dark Lord, Mathis!” said Rabastan aggressively.

“Two Healers frequented that tower,” Mathis continued, undaunted, “and yet when I managed to speak to them a few weeks ago, they had no memory of stepping foot at Hogwarts even though they had been seen multiple times. You yourself saw them, Rodolphus. Why remove their memories of being there? Who had they treated? The answer, if you think about, is obvious.”

“What’s obvious to me is that you’re round the bend,” Rabastan raged. “The Dark Lord _heal_ Potter? The Dark Lord wants him dead!”

“I don’t think he’s wanted him dead in a long time,” said Mathis quietly. “I think he wants him very much alive. I believe he’s become attached.”

Rabastan went as rigid as stone; Bella felt that she’d been doused in freezing water; but Rodolphus let out a great whooping laugh.

“ _Attached?_ Have you gone daft?”

“How else would you describe it?” Mathis asked. “You saw him, Bella. You saw his face when he looked upon Potter.”

The brothers’ eyes were upon her. Her mouth was set in a taunt line.

“Bella?” Rodolphus asked and there was uncertainty in his voice.

She turned her back to them. She marched from the sitting room to the front door.

“Bella?” Rodolphus called after her in alarm.

She did not answer. Stepping out into the night, she Disapparated with a pistol-loud crack. Attached? To that string bean of a child?

Hogwarts’ gates appeared before her, topped with its winged boars. She plowed through the iron, her Dark Mark allowing entry. The sun had risen above the Forbidden Forest. The Whomping Willow flexed its branches. From the half-giant’s hut, Macnair hailed her. She marched on.

Students hastily stepped aside as she mounted the front steps and entered the castle. The Dark Lord could live anywhere and yet he chose Hogwarts. Not Grimmauld Place. Not Malfoy Manor.

Up the ever-shifting staircases, past floating ghosts and that irritating poltergeist, up the tightly spiraled West Tower. The door at the top was open. She stepped inside, breath held in her lungs. It was lavishly decorated, adorned in reds and golds. In the tower’s heart, Voldemort stood. A wardrobe was open; wizard’s robes spilled from it. He held one against his face, inhaling its scent.

She felt as if a knife had been plunged into her heart.

“ _It’s true!_ ”

He turned at her outcry.

“He was here! You had Potter all along! You could have killed him! Why didn’t you kill him?”

“Bella —”

“Did you _bed_ him?” Was this why he’d grown distant? Why he’d never sought to repeat their night together? She had been tossed aside in favor for _Harry Potter_?

She attacked. The robe fell from Voldemort’s hands as he drew his wand. The searing orb of fire ricocheted, hitting the fine threads of the bed. It ignited, engulfing the tower with great clouds of smoke.

“Bella — stop!”

But she would not. _She would not._ How long had he been playing house with the filthy half-blood? How many times had he debased himself? How many times had he chosen Potter over her when she had done _everything_ for him? Scarified _everything_. She lashed out, screaming. He fought, but he was a shell of what he once was. Far too easily she overpowered him, his wand torn from his hand.

“ _Look at you_ ,” she seethed as he leaned heavily against a wall, clutching his chest. “Look at what you’ve become. Look at what he’s done to you. I would rather see you dead than like this.”

But her hand shook and in that moment of hesitation, he dove, snatching up his wand. The spell was on her tongue, but her throat had closed up. She watched him, wide-eyed, as he fled through a broken window. She reached it in time to see him vanish over the Forbidden Forest. A cluster of students waiting outside the Greenhouses bunched up as he soared overhead.

The fire spread around her, consuming the tower. 

**xXx**

A bush rustled, making Harry, Ron and Hermione turn. Neville and Dudley appeared.

“You made it!” Neville cried. “Thank Merlin!”

“We were just coming,” said Harry. “Are the others okay?”

“Yeah,” said Neville. “They’re patching everyone up.”

“And the Malfoy’s?”

Neville nodded. “Robards looked like he didn’t want to, but Madam Pomfrey took charge.”

Hermione removed her and Ron’s transfigurations and dried Harry’s dripping clothes. Together they headed to the farmhouse.

“How mad is Robards?” Ron asked.

“Mad,” said Neville, but he was grinning. “But seeing as everyone’s okay and safe, he can’t really say anything, though I bet he’s still planning to.”

“Did they realize we were gone?” Harry asked Dudley. With every passing second Harry grew lighter. They’d done it. They’d done the impossible. Even the look on Voldemort’s face as he’d stood between Harry and a thousand dementors was fading away.

Dudley shook his head. “We made sure everyone thought we were in the attic. I’ve noticed that no one really cares what you’re doing as long as you’re doing it somewhere _safe_.” He twitched his fingers into quotation marks as he said the word.

“Mum’s been a fanatic about trying to keep us all stationed here,” Ron agreed. “I think she’s made Kingsley promise not to enlist us in any mission. You can see how well that’s worked with George running off half-cocked.” He grimaced. “We’re going to get hell for this.”

“Have you two been on missions?” Harry asked, realizing that he knew very little of what Hermione and Ron had been getting up to for the last few months.

“We’ve done relocation work,” said Hermione. Color was returning to her cheeks. “Setting up safe houses and devising safe passage through England for Muggles and Muggle-borns, that sort of thing, but when Robards joined he wanted Ron and I on his team.”

“Ron told me about that,” said Harry.

“They’re vicious, those Aurors,” said Hermione. “They’re no different than the Death Eaters.”

They left the woods. The farmhouse bustled with activity with the prisoners they had successfully freed. It must have been a shock for Kingsley and the rest to look out a window and see the bedraggled stream of prisoners limping from the woods. They had not been able to free everyone, though. Harry’s stomach clenched, but he shook it off. They had helped as many as they could. As they moved across the yard to the house, Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn were seeing to the injured and Professor Sprout and Professor Trelawney were ladling a steaming soup from a large cauldron that hovered in midair into bowls, passing them out. 

From the front steps, Mrs. Weasley descended. She swooped down upon Ron, scooping him up in a strangling hug.

“Mum — gah — I — can’t — breathe—”

SMACK!

Ron recoiled, clutching the side of his head where she’d just walloped him.

“ _Mum!_ ”

“Don’t you EVER” — _SMACK_ — “do ANYTHING” — _SMACK_ — “like that” — _SMACK_ — “AGAIN!”

“I won’t! I won’t!” said Ron with his arms flung protectively over his head.

“ _And_ _you two!_ ”

Harry and Hermione both took a swift step back as Mrs. Weasley turned upon them.

“I am so” — her eyes flooded with tears — “ _proud_.”

And to their shock, she enveloped all three of them in a tight hug.

“OUCH!” Harry, Hermione and Ron cried as their heads banged together.

“I can’t believe you got Minerva out — that you’re alive — I can’t — I can’t believe it —”

“There, there, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley as he eased her off them.

George watched from the farmhouse’s front porch, smirking. From his rumpled hair, Harry had the feeling he too had been accosted by Mrs. Weasley. By his side, Ginny smiled widely.

“Luna’s so happy,” she told them.

But as Neville and Dudley had forewarned, not everyone was overjoyed to see their gallant arrival. Robards looked like he had lockjaw. Kingsley, however, pulled Harry aside.

“Minerva wants to speak with you.”

As everyone else stayed to help the newcomers, Harry followed Kingsley into the house and up the stairs. They passed a half-open door and Harry spotted Luna sitting at the foot of a bed. She saw him as he walked by and beamed. They headed past another room, but this door was shut. Harry wondered if the Malfoys were behind it. At the third door, Kingsley stopped. He gave the wood a soft knock.

“Five minutes,” said Madam Pomfrey, emerging from the room. “No more than that, Mr. Potter.”

She stepped aside, allowing him entry. Emaciated and gray, McGonagall lay upon a bed. She looked asleep but the moment Kingsley shut the door behind Harry, her eyelids fluttered.

“Potter,” she muttered, seeing him. “Potter.”

She reached out a trembling hand. Harry quickly pulled a chair to her beside.

“I thought you were dead,” she croaked. “He told me he found you. I thought …”

Harry grasped her hand.

“How are you alive?”

“I’m tough,” said Harry. “Like you.”

She looked so far removed from the formidable professor he knew, but in that moment she gave him such a _don’t bullshit me_ expression that Harry laughed. Her waxen face softened.

* * *

By the time Madam Pomfrey booted him out, Robards had joined Kingsley in the hall. Harry foolishly hoped they’d let him slip past, but …

“Pretty miraculous what you did,” said Robards.

“I didn’t do it alone,” said Harry.

“True,” Robards conceded. “I always thought people exaggerated, but you’ve got a silver tongue. Convincing people to break into Azkaban … but I suppose that’s nothing new for you. You always had Weasley and Granger in your pocket … and Longbottom …”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t trick them into helping me.”

“No,” said Robards, now wearing an ingratiating smile. “No, they _wanted_ to, right?” He shared his smile with Kingsley who did not return it. “That Department of Mysteries fiasco … all of last year when you were up to Merlin knows what … they just offered to risk their lives?”

“Is there something you’re trying to get at?” Harry asked.

Robards’ smile turned mean. “No one can break into Azkaban. No one can do that and survive.”

“Well, we just did,” said Harry coolly. “Or do you think McGonagall and the others are transfigured gold fish?”

“They say you were holding back the dementors while they Apparated the prisoners out.”

“That’s right.”

“No one’s patronus is that good. Come on, Harry. We’re all adults here. Tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth.”

Robards made a sound of disbelief that set Harry’s teeth on edge.

“I don’t think you are. I don’t think anyone can pull off what you just did without _inside_ _assistance_ and as Dumbledore’s dead I’ve been wondering who’s been lending the helping hand and since you’re not interested in sharing …” He took from his robe pocket a small, clear bottle and gave it a light shake.

“Gawain,” said Kingsley sharply, “we are _not_ doing that.”

Like he’d been longing for a fight, Robards turned on Kingsley, voice rising. “I told you when we joined up —”

“Harry has done nothing to warrant —”

“Nothing?” Robards echoed, incredulous. “ _Nothing?”_

“Gentlemen,” Madam Pomfrey hissed furiously as she once again stepped out of McGonagall’s room. “Keep your voices down!”

“The boy’s lying through his teeth,” Robards raged, “and you’re so besotted —”

“And you’re so paranoid you’re seeing villains where there aren’t any!” Kingsley shouted. “ _We_ welcomed you into this safe house, Robards, and if you threaten Harry or anyone else under its roof with your baseless accusations you will be removed.” 

Robards’ jaw jutted out. He stuffed the bottle of Veritaserum back into his pocket. Turning on his heel, he stomped down the hall.

Harry cut his eyes to Kingsley.

“Thanks.”

Kingsley’s eyes were hard. “You need to be careful.”

“What have I done to make him think I’m the enemy?” Harry demanded as Madam Pomfrey, muttering darkly under her breath, returned to McGonagall. “All I’ve done is help.”

“He thinks you’ve turned,” said Kingsley. “He thinks You-Know-Who put you here to spy on us. He thinks You-Know-Who _allowed_ you to free McGonagall and the others in order to eliminate any suspicions.”

Harry’s stomach twisted into a knot.

“I’m not a traitor.”

“I know,” said Kingsley. “I’ll keep an eye on him. You did incredible today.” He smiled. “No one else would have had the nerve.”

But as Harry returned to the kitchen and joined the others for lunch, he did not feel triumphant. He couldn’t help but picture Kingsley’s face if he discovered the truth. Mrs. Weasley heaped fried chicken onto his plate and Kingsley became her and then Mr. Weasley, McGonagall, George, Neville, Ron, Hermione. Malfoy seemed willing to accept the fact that he and Voldemort had … had …

Harry swallowed.

If they knew the truth, would they think as Robards did?

“What did I tell you?” tiny Dedalus Diggle cheered, clapping Dudley on his broad back. “Two weeks back and Harry Potter’s brought Azkaban to its knees! If anyone can rid us of You-Know-Who, it’s Harry!”

He lifted his glass in a toast and everyone mirrored him. His name rang around the table.

Harry’s throat closed up. He stood.

“Everything all right, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Back in a minute.”

He left the kitchen at top speed. As he had done on his first morning there, he fled to the bathroom.

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked his reflection. “What the fuck are you going to do?”

He could dodge Robards. He could even dodge Kingsley. But Ron? Hermione? Neville? He couldn’t dodge them. Voldemort was still in control. Voldemort still had to be stopped and Harry …

He sat heavily on the toilet seat, cradling his head. What was he going to do?

The lock on the bathroom door clicked and Harry jumped to his feet.

“Oi!” he said, angry, as Malfoy entered.

Malfoy shut the door. He looked at Harry steadily.

“I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“Are they going to be okay? Your parents?” Harry asked.

Malfoy nodded and for a horrible second, Harry thought he was going to embrace him, but to his immense relief, Malfoy regained his composure.

“My wand,” he said business-like. “I let you keep it to get my parents free. You said you would give it back to me.” He snapped his fingers. “Pass it over.”

Harry couldn’t believe him. After saving him from Snatchers. After saving his parents from Azkaban.

“No.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared.

“If you don’t give me back my wand I’m telling everyone about you and the Dark Lord!”

“Try it,” Harry growled even as his stomach writhed. “Let’s see who they believe.”

Malfoy drew his wand and Harry pulled his from his jean’s pocket.

“Give me back my wand, Potter! I mean it! _Everte Statum!_ ”

The window rattled as Harry was thrown hard against it. Hating Malfoy, he whipped his wand, sending a burst of wind across the bathroom. Malfoy’s feet skidded backward. The door blew open and he gripped the edge of its frame to stop from toppling head over heels into the hall. Teeth bared, he managed to shoot crackling sparks at Harry. Forced to erect a shield, the wind dissipated.

“ARGH!” Malfoy roared. He charged into the bathroom and tackled Harry. They rolled on the ground, kicking and punching, wands forgotten.

“The hell?”

An invisible force pushed them apart.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Ron demanded, standing over them.

Harry held his breath as Malfoy glowered up at Ron. Face ugly, hair on end, Malfoy got to his feet. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

“This isn’t over, Potter.”

He pushed past Ron, who looked dumbfounded.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked Harry.

Harry’s right cheek was smarting from where Malfoy’s fist had collided. He used the sink to pull himself to standing.

“We had a disagreement.”

“A disagreement?” said Ron faintly, taking in the livid bruise on Harry’s face.

“Yeah,” said Harry shortly.

Hermione appeared in the doorway. “What happened to Mal — good God! Harry!”

“It’s nothing,” said Harry, nettled.

“They had a _disagreement_ , apparently,” Ron relayed.

Hermione’s eyebrows formed a severe V, but before she could press Harry Neville interrupted. He looked at each of them in turn with wide eyes.

“We got him!” he said breathlessly. “We got You-Know-Who!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffie!! With just three chapters to go I am intending to post quicker than usual, so keep checking your alerts!


	12. Part Four: Chapter 12

**“You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and come back again.”**

**― Fyodor Dostoevsky, _The Brothers Karamazov_**

* * *

“What?” Ron gasped.

“They caught him outside of Abington,” said Neville, speaking fast. “They’re bringing him —” Neville turned, as if listening to something happening deeper in the house. He bolted, racing back down the hall and Harry, Ron, and Hermione sprinted after him. Harry’s heart was an elastic band. _He couldn’t be here. He couldn’t be._

The foyer was packed and noisy. Harry and the others squeezed their way through. Robards, Kingsley and two Aurors Harry did not know by name stood before the sitting room door. The commotion had alerted the far reaches of the house: the Dursleys peered nervously over the stair’s banister and Malfoy, lip still bleeding, hovered at the edge of the group.

“It’s him?” Slughorn asked. “Is it true?”

Kingsley nodded. He pulled the yew from his pocket for all of them to see.

“It’s him.”

Like a dam breaking, cries of elation exploded. George clambered up onto a chair and whooped at the top of his lungs. Ginny and Luna jumped up and down as if they’d won a Quidditch match. Harry was jostled. He was being hugged. He was being thumped on the back. Ron was shouting, Hermione was crying. At the wide open front door, Hagrid pushed halfway through and was punching the air with his fist.

“How did you get him?” asked Professor Sprout as Professor Flitwick sent streamers flying through the air.

“Kappelhoff and Watts,” said Robards, proudly taking in the two Aurors. “They did it. They nabbed him.”

“He’s injured,” one of them explained. “No way we would have been able to subdue him otherwise.”

“What do we do with him?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

The group suddenly quieted, looking at Kingsley and Robards.

“We should kill him,” said George.

Sounds of agreement echoed George’s words. Kingsley held up his hands for silence.

“This is not a decision to be made lightly.” He kept his hands up, pushing back against the swell of anger. “Victory is in our grasp, but You-Know-Who has dismantled our government and country. Killing him will not solve our problems overnight. He is a criminal and should be given trial —”

“Trial?” someone cried out, enraged. “That bastard doesn’t deserve a trial!”

“I don’t think he’s going to make it very long,” the Auror remarked. “I expect the decision will be made for us come morning.”

“Blimey,” said Ron in a low voice. “Maybe he pissed off the giants. Harry — where are you going?”

Harry pushed through the crowd, past the stairs and down the hall, leaving the gathering behind. He felt that he was hyperventilating. He fled to the bedroom he shared with Ron and Malfoy. He made to shut the door, but Ron and Hermione had followed.

“Harry — what’s wrong? You look like you’re going to pass out.”

“You don’t need to worry anymore,” said Hermione, thinking this would soothe him. “He’s not getting away. It’s over! We’ve done it!”

Harry shook his head, feeling like he was going to throw up.

“Mate …” said Ron, worried.

“I lied!” Harry’s heart pounded like a hammer. “Malfoy didn’t save me from Voldemort, Voldemort let me go. I’ve been at Hogwarts for months. I was ill; I was dying and he found me and I think he meant to kill me but … but he.” Harry’s voice caught. “He …”

“Harry …” Hermione’s face was white.

Ron’s mouth hung open.

“He let me go,” said Harry, trembling from head to foot. “He had me, but he let me go. He was at Azkaban when we were. The only reason we’re alive is because he stopped the dementors from attacking. I’m not a traitor! I’m not under his control!” It was paramount that they knew that. “I should have told you from the start, but I was scared what you’d think.”

Ron stared at Harry.

“Why did Voldemort release you?” Hermione asked. “Why would he do that? Why did he save you at Azkaban? Why …” Her eyes widened. She covered her mouth. “Oh, Harry.”

“What?” said Ron sharply, looking from Hermione to Harry. “ _What?_ ”

“And you?” Hermione whispered, staring at Harry.

Harry felt like crying. He nodded.

Hermione closed her eyes as if he’d spoken his damnation.

“What’s going on?” Ron demanded, terrified.

“We’ll distract them,” said Hermione in a stronger voice.

Harry blinked wet eyelashes, staring at her in confusion. “What …?”

“Take this.” She shoved her beaded handbag into his startled hands. “The tent’s in there; I went back for it when I heard Malfoy mention it; you shouldn’t leave tents lying around, Harry, they’re useful. There are some potions in there too, but I don’t know if they’ll help. There’s no telling what his injuries are. You’ll need your Cloak.”

“Hermione …” Harry said faintly.

“Do you believe he can change?” Hermione demanded fiercely.

“I want to find out,” Harry answered.

Mouth set, Hermione turned to Ron. “We need to get everyone away from that door.”

Ron, who still looked half a step behind, said, “How are we going to do that?”

“Would a few fireworks work?”

They spun around. Unbeknownst to them, Dudley had slipped into the room. He hovered in the shadows.

“I pocketed some when George was making them. They’re under my bed. If we set them off on the other side of the house —”

“They’ll be drawn away.”

“The Aurors won’t leave, though,” said Ron.

“I’ll take care of them,” said Harry swiftly.

“You’ll only have seconds to get out of the house and to the wards,” said Hermione.

Harry couldn’t believe they were helping him. His heart was bursting with gratitude, but there was no time to linger.

“Robards suspects I’m a traitor,” he told them urgently. “I don’t want him thinking the same about you. He can’t know you helped me.”

“We’ll be careful,” Hermione assured him.

“Mate, are you sure about this?” Ron asked.

“I have to try.”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand. “Please be careful.”

Pale, yet determined, Ron and Hermione followed Dudley to the Dursley side of the house. Harry pulled the Cloak over his head. He rooted about in Ron’s dresser, stuffing extra clothes into Hermione’s beaded bag. Out of the room and down the hall, back past the stairs: the foyer was still packed. A consensus of what to do with Voldemort had not yet been reached. Harry chose a spot out of the way and waited.

_BOOM_

Dudley had snatched more than just ‘a few’ judging by the force of the blast. Pictures on the walls jumped off their hooks; Harry quickly steadied himself as the ground trembled.

“What the —”

“What was that?”

Harry flattened himself against the wall as everyone rushed past him, running up the stairs toward the sound of the explosion as another rocked the farmhouse.

“Kappelhoff! Watts! Stay here!” Robards ordered. He drew his wand and charged through the front door, patrolling the perimeter.

Foyer clear, Harry took careful aim.

“Stupify!”

The Aurors dropped. Harry stepped over them. He tapped his wand on the door handle.

“Alohomora.”

The lock clicked; the door swung open. Hands tied behind his back, Voldemort was slumped on the floor, but at the sound of the door opening, he looked up. Harry removed the Cloak and Voldemort’s eyes widened.

“Harry.”

Harry rushed to him. He couldn’t see any visible wounds, but it was obvious something was wrong.

“Your face …” Voldemort took in the redness of Harry’s cheek from where Malfoy had punched him. His voice was weak and labored, but there was indignation.

“It’s nothing,” said Harry, speaking fast. He removed the ropes binding Voldemort’s hands. “We have to go. Now.”

Harry tugged on one of Voldemort’s arms. He looked startled, but he rose. The moment he did, however, he doubled up, gritting his teeth.

“Where are you hurt?” Harry asked. “I have potions —”

“Potions won’t help,” Voldemort said through pressed lips. “I don’t have … much … time …” Voldemort gripped Harry’s arms. “I have … to tell you …”

“You can tell me later.”

“No.” Voldemort inhaled sharply. He swayed dangerously.

“What’s wrong?” Harry demanded, holding him up. “What happened to you?”

Voldemort’s grip was leaving bruises on Harry’s arms. He looked like he was going to pass out.

“I wish I hadn’t … what I … did … to you … I wish I … hadn’t … I wish …”

And Harry understood.

_“Isn’t there a way of putting yourself back together?”_

_“Yes, but it would be excruciatingly painful.”_

“Come on,” Harry urged, heart in his throat. “Come on.”

He couldn’t put the Cloak over both of them, so he stashed it away in Hermione’s bag. They inched to the door and Harry peered around the corner. A fresh explosion shook the windowpanes and Harry heard Mrs. Weasley shout from somewhere up the stairs, “Can’t you stop them?”

“I’d hoped they’d bring me … to you,” Voldemort whispered, short of breath though they’d hardly walked three feet. Getting him to the wards without anyone seeing would be a miracle.

“We have to hurry. Once we get to the trees —”

“I don’t think I can.”

“I’m not letting you give up!” said Harry and his fury seemed to spark something within Voldemort, strengthening him.

They stepped over the unconscious Aurors. They made it across the foyer and Harry checked the front lawn for Robards before hurrying Voldemort down the steps. The explosions had stopped. The air smelt of brimstone. Voldemort leaned heavy upon Harry, his steps as uneven as a drunk’s.

“You’re doing great … that’s it.”

Around Hagrid’s woodshed; into the tree line —

“Almost there,” Harry panted. “Just a bit —”

Harry stopped short as Neville stepped onto the path, blocking their way. His livid gaze took them in. His wand was trained upon Voldemort.

“Neville —”

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

“Neville, I can’t explain —”

“ _Are you helping him escape?_ ” Neville demanded, voice shaking as badly as the hand holding his wand.

“Please get out of the way, Neville,” Harry begged.

“Leave me,” said Voldemort.

“ _No_ ,” Harry snarled. They were just a few yards short of the wards. He fished out his wand, gripping it tight. “Neville, _please_.”

Neville looked at Harry as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What did he do to you?”

“Get out of the way, Neville!”

A stunner shot from Neville’s wand. Harry pushed Voldemort to the ground as he jumped out of the spell’s way.

“Expelliarmus!” Neville bellowed.

“Petrificus totalus!” Harry shouted.

Neville’s aim was off by a millimeter, but Harry’s hit him full in the chest. Neville went rigid; his entire body locked up. He tipped over sideways and fell hard on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry as Neville glared at him with hurt and confusion. “I’m sorry.”

“Harry …” Voldemort was trying to rise and Harry helped him. Voices reached them through the trees. They were out of time.

“Quick! Quick!”

Voldemort could hardly stand; his eyes were half closed. Harry dragged him over the invisible line just as a group of people burst through the foliage, Kingsley and Robards and Mr. Weasley at the lead. Harry gripped Voldemort tightly and spiraled them away.

The looks on their faces…

But there was no time to think about that. They reappeared in a different mossy forest and Voldemort was screaming. For a heart-thumping moment Harry thought he’d been Splinched, but it was the agony of his soul that was crippling him.

“Accio tent!”

The tent few from the bag in a tangle and with a jerk of his wand, it sprung up. Harry didn’t know how he managed to get Voldemort inside and onto a bunk. He was twisted with pain, screaming.

Harry ran back outside and frantically cast the spells to hide them. All the while, Voldemort screams shattered the air. Finished, he sprinted back inside.

“Vol — Tom, Tom!”

But Voldemort didn’t seem to hear him or see him. His eyes rolled in his skull; his body contorted on the bed as if he was having a seizure. Harry kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bunk. He wrapped Voldemort in his arms and held him, trying to steady him. Eyes screwed shut, Harry held him tight, riding through the storm.

**xXx**

Like demons dancing around a bonfire, they encircled him. He was tied to a pyre. One figure among the eight stepped closer. Harry’s face glowed in the firelight. He touched his hand to Voldemort’s blistering cheek and Harry’s skin was so cool against his. He leaned into it, but Harry stepped back.

_No. Please._

Harry retreated, rejoining the circle of the dead. He knew them. His victims. His Horcruxes.

Smoke burned Voldemort’s eyes; the flames licked his sides. The fire burned and Voldemort welcomed it. The smoke seared his lungs and Voldemort welcomed it. His skin turned black and bloody and Voldemort welcomed it.

**xXx**

Dawn crept across the canvas and birdsong steadily grew in volume. Harry had moved to sit on the floor. His arms and head rested on the lower bunk where Voldemort lay. At some point, he’d taken Voldemort’s hand in his. Voldemort had grown quiet and still and Harry, unable to think of what to do, had done nothing. Eventually, he dozed off but the sudden twitching of fingers jerked him back awake. He straightened, righting his glasses —

Voldemort was staring at him. The damp cloth Harry had placed upon his forehead during the night had slipped off. Unnerved by the unblinking stare, Harry sat quite still.

“Are you … are you thirsty?” Harry asked.

No reply. No reaction.

“Are you hungry?”

Voldemort’s gaze remained unwavering upon Harry’s face. Nervous, Harry licked his lips. Cautiously, slowly, as if Voldemort were a wild beast who might attack at any moment, Harry moved. Voldemort’s eyes followed him as he picked up the cloth, dipped it in the bowl of cool water, rung it of excess and returned it to his forehead. It was only when Harry pressed the back of his hand against Voldemort’s skin to check his temperature that Voldemort closed his eyes.

“Is it over?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Harry’s heart thumped loud in his ears. He filled a glass of water with a point of his wand.

“You should eat something,” but Harry knew that was a goal for later. He took the few sips of water Voldemort managed to swallow as a victory.

Voldemort’s breathing grew labored again. His skin was feverishly hot. Harry refreshed the cloth.

And so the day continued. Stomach grumbling, Harry rummaged about in the cupboards. He found a box of stale biscuits, an unopened jar of pickled eggs and a half used jug of cooking fat. He’d need to sneak into a Muggle village and get food. Harry didn’t like stealing, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Voldemort slept on and off through the day. He did not say another word. By nightfall, his fever broke. Harry offered him a pickled egg, which he firmly rejected, turning his face as if the sight revolted him. Putting the jar away, Harry clambered up into the top bunk.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Harry looked over the edge of the bed. Voldemort was staring up at him. It was the first time he’d spoken since morning.

“I wouldn’t put up much of a fight,” he added, voice a rasp.

Harry rolled back onto his back. “No,” he said clearly.

Seconds ticked.

“Why are you helping me?”

Harry watched the tent’s cover ripple in a sudden wind. An owl hooted and tree branches creaked.

“Because you helped me.”

Voldemort made no reply to that. Harry removed his glasses, murmured “ _Nox,_ ” turned on his side and tried to find sleep.

* * *

Deep in slumber and then wide awake — Harry stared up at the underside of the tent’s canopy with the alertness of someone expecting a drill. A cacophony of trilling birds issued outside. Harry wondered how early it was as milky-gray light illuminated the tent. Not sure what he expected to see — not sure what he _hoped_ to see — Harry carefully rolled onto his front and peered over the edge of the bunk. On the bed beneath him, Harry spotted a slender, pale arm. He listened intently, but he could not tell whether Voldemort was dead, asleep or awake.

Harry slipped back out of sight, worried Voldemort would look up at him as he had last night. He was full of worry. Worry for Ron and Hermione and Dudley. He wished he could send them a message, but Harry knew that would only put them in danger. His stomach clenched as he remembered the look on Neville’s face.

Harry sat up. He put on his glasses and quietly, gritting his teeth as a step on the ladder creaked, Harry descended. Relief washed over him: Voldemort slept.

As the top bunk had been a sanctuary, so too was the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water with a tap of his wand and set the last of the biscuits and pickled eggs on the table. He didn’t like the idea of stealing food. He wondered if he could transfigure the eggs or biscuits into something more appealing.

Ten minutes later, Harry had something that resembled ham and crumpets. The ham still smelled like brine and the crumpets were now as stale as cardboard, but Harry could fry them up in a bit of fat. He reached for the cooking oil on the table as bedsprings squeaked.

For a moment, they stared at each other and then Harry blurted, “Morning.”

Voldemort did not respond and in the painful silence, Harry asked, “Are you …”

“I’m fine.”

Harry swallowed. Voldemort’s eyes took in the kitchen and sitting area.

“Restroom?”

Harry pointed to the door on the left and Voldemort, stepping from the bunk with care, slowly and gingerly, moved to the door.

“I packed some clothes,” Harry said before he disappeared into the bathroom. He crossed the room, feeling Voldemort’s eyes follow him. He rooted inside Hermione’s beaded handbag and extracted the jumble of pants and shirts he’d snatched from Ron’s wardrobe. “I don’t know how well they’ll fit, if you want them, that is. I can try to mend your robes, if you’d rather …” Harry’s voice trailed away under Voldemort’s expressionless gaze.

One spidery-thin hand reached out and took the clothes. Silently, Voldemort stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Harry released a great, shaky exhale. He returned to the stove, igniting a burner with a prod of his wand.

_It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay._ _Everything’s going to be okay._

Harry sliced the crumpets in half.

He’d sort this out. Somehow. He’d been in bigger messes, hadn’t he?

The kettle whistled and he lifted it off the burner. Harry blinked, staring at his hand. It was dripping with blood. He’d cut his finger on the knife and he hadn’t even felt it.

Unnerved, Harry pressed a fistful of his T-shirt against he cut. The bathroom door opened and Voldemort stepped back into sight. He was dressed in Ron’s jeans and a blue button-up shirt. It was so jarring Harry gaped.

“Is there needle and thread?” Voldemort asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” said Harry, confused. “Why?”

“So I can sew your mouth shut.”

Harry blushed. “They look like they fit.”

Stone-faced Voldemort made his way across to the tent’s flap. He opened it slightly and looked outside.

“Where are we?”

“Wyre Forest,” Harry answered.

“You’ve done this before.” Voldemort let the flap swing shut. “This was how you hid from me.”

“You get used to it,” said Harry. He turned his attention back to the stove. It was easier to think — to breathe — if he didn’t look at Voldemort.

“You chose well,” Voldemort commended. “We must stay clear of villages. All of England will be looking for us.”

“You don’t want to be found by your Death Eaters?”

“Not particularly. Bella discovered the truth about us,” he explained at Harry’s look of surprise. “To them, I have committed the greatest sin. They will kill me on sight. You are burning your food.”

So absorbed in staring at Voldemort, astounded by his words, Harry had forgotten about his skillet of ham and crumpets. He quickly flipped them over, frying them on the other side.

“I was thinking,” said Harry, “since you’re better, we could —”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You want us to return to the Order of the Phoenix,” said Voldemort. “You believe you can convince them to spare me. Spare you. They won’t. It’s why you should have left me. You’re burning your food again.”

Harry looked back at his skillet. The contents were shriveled and black. He snuffed out the burner with an angry jab of his wand.

“You shouldn’t have helped me.”

Harry shut his eyes. Fear and worry writhed inside him, but he refused to doubt. If he doubted … Harry kept his back to Voldemort.

“Are you going to do it again? Are you going to make another Horcrux?”

Harry looked over his shoulder when Voldemort did not answer and the expression on his face made Harry’s heart still.

“Are you?” Harry pressed.

Voldemort stepped around the table. He stood before Harry, his fiery eyes as firm as his voice.

“If I say I won’t, would you believe me? I won’t, Harry, but I cannot deny that I am a weak man and weak men fall prey to old lures. I’m realizing now the strength such a decision requires and I fear that I will fail. But I promise you — I swear to you — that I will try to be as strong as you are.”

“I’m not strong,” said Harry.

“You?” Voldemort’s lips moved into a shadow of his old smile. His eyes flickered to the scar on Harry’s forehead. “Not strong? You are the strongest man I have ever met. And that is why you must leave me.”

“Stop saying that,” Harry gritted. “I’ll sort this out. I’ll make them listen.”

“You cannot fix this, Harry,” said Voldemort firmly. “You cannot right my wrongs.”

“Shut up.”

“You will tell them I placed the Imperius Curse upon you —”

“I’m not —”

“It is the only way,” Voldemort went on relentlessly. “You must go now before it’s too —”

Voldemort’s words were cut off as Harry wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed him. For a heartbeat, Voldemort was stiff with shock and then his long arms encased Harry, pulling him closer. The kiss turned into a plunder. Voldemort’s hands were under Harry’s shirt. They bumped into the kitchen table and the jug of oil tipped, spilling. Voldemort’s hands were on his jeans now, unzipping them. Harry hoisted himself up onto the table. As they stole the breath from each other’s lungs, Voldemort pressed him down upon the table, drawing Harry’s legs up around him.

A slender, oiled finger pushed inside. Harry’s breath hitched. He kept kissing Voldemort, focusing on that rather than the finger moving inside him. Another digit joined the first, pumping, stretching.

The fingers left and a moment later something far larger pressed against him. Voldemort entered with the barest push and Harry tensed. Realizing his mistake, he tried to relax.

Voldemort moved slowly. Inch by inch, he shifted back and forth until fully seated. Harry’s lungs stopped working. It didn’t feel particularly nice. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted this after all. If he told Voldemort to stop, would he?

_Breathe, dammit. Just breathe._

Voldemort drew back before pushing in again at a slightly different angle and a bolt of electricity shot through Harry. His heart stuttered to a full stop and then it galloped into a frenzy.

_Oh. **Oh.**_

Harry didn’t realize he’d moaned until Voldemort stopped moving.

“Don’t stop,” Harry gasped, clutching Voldemort’s forearms. “That was … that was …”

Voldemort repeated the action and Harry’s eyes rolled into the back of his skull. His toes curled. He pushed against the next thrust and _God_ that felt even better.

Harry knew he was crimson in the face. Obscenities fell from his lips until Voldemort shoved his tongue back into his mouth, whether to shut him up or drink up his curses, Harry didn’t know. He had never felt anything like this and all the while his brain and body kept screaming _more_.

Voldemort’s hand found Harry’s cock sandwiched between their bodies and pumped in time to his thrusts. Harry’s muffled cry went unheard against Voldemort’s mouth as he came, lights sparking behind his eyelids. Voldemort gripped the table’s edge, thrusting deeper. He buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck; he went rigid and Harry felt him spill inside him.

**xXx**

Voldemort pulled out and stumbled backward. Tiny, microscopic tremors shuddered through his nerve endings. He was covered in gooseflesh. His mind was horrifically blank. He watched Harry sit up and waited for Harry to say something.

But Harry was silent. They held each other’s gaze and the moment passed as quickly as it had come. Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor and Voldemort lost the little courage that remained. He staggered back, retreating to the bathroom. He leaned heavily upon the door, knees shaking. He realized he was still unzipped and, with heat flaring high in his cheeks, he jerked the zipper back up. His old robes, torn and burned from dueling Bella, still lay on the bathroom’s tiled floor. He caught his reflection in the mirror. Dressed in Muggle clothes, he looked ridiculous. He felt utterly out of place. This was not how he’d pictured taking Harry and he couldn’t help but feel that it had gone wrong.

He turned the doorknob, intent upon saying _something_ , though what, he had no idea.

He froze.

Harry had gone.

* * *

Voldemort paced the tent like a wild animal. Harry had left a note on the table.

_Getting supplies._

Voldemort’s prowling steps brought him to the tent’s flap and he glared out of it before turning sharply and stalking to the bathroom door before turning sharply again.

_He’s left you. He isn’t coming back._

Voldemort shook the voice away. Harry wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t. But he had been gone too long.

_He regrets._

Voldemort’s banged into a chair, but he hardly noticed, his mind too occupied with a fresh horrible possibility.

_He saved you out of guilt. Out of debt. He regrets. He’s left you. How could he want you, you old, twisted, ruined man?_

“Tom?”

Voldemort whirled around.

An invisibility cloak slipped off Harry’s shoulders. Voldemort’s heart leapt with relief, and then burned with fury.

“Where have you been?” he snarled. “Australia?”

Harry blinked in surprise. He pulled out a pocket watch.

“I was only gone fifteen minutes.”

Embarrassment made the back of Voldemort’s neck heat up and that only made him madder. 

Harry set down a small beaded handbag and the Cloak in a nearby armchair. He crossed the tent to him. Voldemort felt cornered. Trapped. Now that Harry was back, he wanted him to leave. He’d wanted Harry to gaze upon him forever and now all he wanted was for Harry to turn away.

“Are we okay?” Harry asked.

Voldemort couldn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t speak. His voice had retreated down his throat. Suddenly, Voldemort found himself embraced. Harry’s arms wrapped around him, holding him like a parent consoling a child and Voldemort couldn’t stop from hugging back, clutching the back of Harry’s shirt. He felt like he was drowning and Harry was his raft.

Kisses as soft as Harry’s voice were placed upon his cheek.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered. “It’s okay.”

“I thought you regretted …”

“I don’t regret a second. I’m sorry. I thought you needed space.”

Space? If there was space, Voldemort wanted Harry’s laugh, his scent, his light filling it.

“You’re shaking. Come on. Back to bed.”

Voldemort didn’t want to. He didn’t want to lose contact, but his knees were wobbling, the room was tilting again. Harry helped him back onto the lower bunk. Voldemort expected Harry to pull away, but he didn’t. He climbed in beside him.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked.

Yes. A hundred times over, yes.

Harry kissed him and one kiss turned into five. Turned into a dozen.

“Can I take this off?” Harry gently plucked at a button on Voldemort’s shirt.

“Yes.”

With another kiss, Harry rolled on top of him. He tasted every inch of skin he exposed. He paused long enough to remove his own clothing. He covered Voldemort like a blanket.

“Say my name.” The words left Voldemort as if a stranger had spoken them. It was not an order. It was a plead. He was _pleading_ and he felt shame and a twist of revulsion. Who had he become? Who was this stranger that had slipped beneath his skin? He wanted to take it back the moment he’d said it. If Harry was jarred by the request, he hid it, instead pressing his thigh between Voldemort’s legs.

“Tom,” he breathed against the shell of Voldemort’s ear. “ _Tom._ ”

Voldemort had never thought his name was beautiful — neither special nor unique — but upon Harry’s tongue, it was liquid gold.

If this was love, let it consume him.

If this was love, let it fill him.

If this was love, let him drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I planned that when Voldemort regained his soul he would turn into Tom Riddle, but I ran across a post on tumblr that made me rethink that decision. (I was also having a hard time dealing with the believability of Voldy pulling a Beauty and the Beast style transformation, so I was very open to different possibilities.) I have no memory of who wrote the post or even what the post was about, but it sparked a serious reevaluation and I’m very happy it did. I like the idea of this being a harrymort from start to finish. I like the idea that Voldemort cannot return to his old looks. We don’t know much about how the putting your soul back together process works, which means we can be creative. Even though the majority of V’s soul pieces were destroyed by Harry and the gang, we get the sense from the end of book 7 that there is a chance for V to not be tortured forever in death when Harry suggests he try for some remorse. I took that and ran with it.


	13. Chapter 13

Voldemort slept and Harry lay tucked against his side, listening to him breathe. He traced a finger across a nipple, watching in fascination as it hardened. Slowly, he eased himself free of Voldemort’s arms. He wrapped himself in a dressing gown and padded quietly out of the tent. He sat in its opening on the mossy ground. It struck him how very vibrant everything looked: the sunlight bouncing off the leaves; the ants marching in their lines. Even the air smelled crisper, fresher, than it had a mere hour ago.

“Harry? Harry!”

Scrambling to his feet, Harry darted back inside the tent. Voldemort was half out of bed.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked. “What is it?”

Voldemort grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him onto the bed.

“Do _not_ leave without telling me.”

“You were asleep.”

“Then wake me,” said Voldemort fiercely. “If you wish to go somewhere, you wake me.”

“I didn’t go anywhere. I was right outside.”

“ _I mean it, Harry._ ”

Harry interlaced their fingers and lightened his voice.

“Is this a good time to discuss your habit of wanting to control everything?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed.

“I control because I am right.”

“But what if I’m right?” Harry asked.

Voldemort’s lips thinned. Their fingers remained interlaced and, whether consciously or not, Voldemort’s thumb began to rub circles.

“Do you think I’m going to leave you?” Harry asked quietly. “Do you think the only way I’ll stay is if you seal up the tent? Do you think the only way to keep me here is if you order it? I’m here,” Harry said, making Voldemort meet his eyes, “because I want to be. And if you think I’ll run off and do something stupid —”

“I know you’re careful.”

“Then can you trust me?” Harry asked. “Can you trust me that I won’t leave you?”

Voldemort looked at their joined hands. Harry held his breath, waiting.

“I’ll try.”

Harry smiled. They drew together, lips and then mouths. Their hands unclasped; Voldemort’s fingers buried themselves in his hair as Harry’s hands roamed Voldemort’s back. He pressed closer, but Harry wriggled away.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“No,” Voldemort answered, moving in for another kiss.

“Well, I am,” Harry stated and he pulled away entirely, hopping out of the bed and moving to the kitchen. He retrieved the bag from the armchair and began unpacking the goods he’d pinched from the grocers: eggs, milk, sausages. On the bed, Voldemort watched Harry spread peanut butter on a slice of bread and consume it in three enormous bites.

“You really should eat,” Harry urged after unsticking his tongue with a swig of milk.

“Maybe later.” Voldemort rose from the sheets. Harry’s heart quickened at the sight of him. He forced his gaze to stay at eye level and not travel down that smooth body. “I am partial to fruit.”

“What sort?” Harry grinned. “Peaches?”

Voldemort’s lips quirked at Harry’s joke. He crossed the tent. He was so much steadier than he had been. He cupped Harry’s face and kissed him. He slipped the dressing gown off Harry’s shoulders.

“Wait …”

Harry picked up Hermione’s bag from the counter and groped inside it, searching …

He pressed the bottle of lubricant into Voldemort’s hand.

“We shouldn’t waste cooking oil.”

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed. He took Harry by the hand and led him back to the bed.

* * *

Harry lost track of time. He lost track of everything. Sex with Voldemort was unlike anything. Better than magic. Better than flying. Was it still morning? Afternoon? He was startled when, growing hungry again, he stumbled out of the bed to fix a snack and maybe a cup of tea and glanced outside the tent’s flap. Twilight had descended.

Harry was light-headed. This must be what if felt like to be drunk. Voldemort pulled him back into his arms and they fell into rapture again. Harry couldn’t get him deep enough. He wanted to swallow him whole. He wanted to fuse into one. The tea kettle whistled as they fucked on the kitchen table.

The night was splintered by hands and teeth and jerking hips. He knew he couldn’t keep this up. He’d pass out if he didn’t rest, but he angled his hips so Voldemort’s cock hit that sweet spot with each thrust. _We’ll stop after this_ , he promised. _We’ll stop._ But Voldemort gave no sign of stopping and Harry couldn’t say no.

They lay boneless, sheets damp and tangled. As Harry stared up at the underside of the upper bunk, his eyes misted and out of focus, Voldemort watched him.

“I could look upon you forever.”

“That would get boring fast.”

Voldemort’s eyes sparkled. He brushed Harry’s damp fringe from his forehead; his fingers glossed over his scar.

“Never,” he whispered. “Your eyes, your mouth, your neck.” Breath ghosted across Harry’s lips. “Your chest,” Voldemort murmured, shifting, placing barely-there kisses along the tender skin.

Harry inhaled a laugh.

“Your stomach. Your thighs.”

Voldemort traveled the length of Harry’s body, kissing and touching, sucking and biting. Harry felt like a radiator on full blast.

_Careful_ , he thought wildly as Voldemort lavished him. _I might burn you._

* * *

Daylight arrived in a haze. Harry’s legs were made of rubber. He rolled out of the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Sensing his presence, the light fixtures turned on without flicking a switch. Without his glasses, Harry’s reflection was blurred. He stepped closer to the mirror to see. He looked as ravished as he felt. His hair was more tangled than a bird’s nest. Love-bites littered his skin. It was a good thing they were in the middle of a forest. Harry wasn’t sure how sound proof the tent was.

He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. He felt borderline ill, his mind sluggish with lack of sleep and exhaustion. He braced himself against the wall, letting the water spray his back. He was seconds from nodding off, but was jerked awake as Voldemort’s hands rubbed his shoulders. They panned down his back to his ass, cupping and kneading and Harry dug his nails into the slick tiles. First the kitchen table, then the bed … Hermione’s favorite armchair, the rug where Ron had tapped through the wireless for Potterwatch and now here, in the shower.

Voldemort’s fingers were slick with soap and just when Harry thought he was going to push them inside him, he felt something else entirely.

A half choked gasp escape him as Voldemort licked his entrance. Pushing and stabbing, Voldemort’s tongue invaded him and Harry pressed his flaming forehead against the cool wall. It shouldn’t feel this good, should it? Against all odds, his cock stirred back to life.

The tongue left him. Voldemort stood, his chest flush against Harry’s back. He entered Harry in one single push.

They’d been fucking too often; Harry wouldn’t last. He doubted he’d even be able to come, but he grasped his cock anyway. He gritted his teeth, already aching for release, but Voldemort’s thrusts were slow and long.

His hips pulled back and his cock left Harry entirely. Wondering if the man had finally grown too exhausted to continue, Harry looked over his shoulder. Voldemort turned him so they were face to face. Pushing him up against the wall, he placed his hands on the backs of Harry’s thighs and lifted him. Instinctively, Harry wrapped his legs around Voldemort’s waist and Voldemort entered him again. Deep and rolling, the grinds turned to thrusts. Voldemort drove his cock upward. Harry hooked his ankles together to help with the leverage. They fell out of sync, but it didn’t matter, both rutting wildly against each other.

The end came in a wave of pleasure that tore Harry’s voice from his throat.

Quivering, he unwound himself, but the moment his feet touched the floor he slid down the shower wall, unable to support himself. Voldemort joined him, sliding down the opposite wall, their legs sprawling. Harry didn’t have the strength to raise his arm to turn off the shower so it continued to pummel their heads.

“We need to leave England,” Voldemort said after a moment. “A Portkey will do the job.”

“I don’t know how to make a Portkey,” said Harry as his head fell back against the wall and he closed his eyes.

“I’ll do it. Where’s your wand?”

“On the floor by the bed,” Harry told him, too exhausted to get it himself. “But I don’t think it will work.”

“Nonsense.” Voldemort got to his feet and left the shower. Harry stayed where he was, eyes closed, the warm shower raining down. Sleep inched its tendrils close around him –

The shower turned off. Blinking, Harry looked up. Voldemort loomed above him. He had tied a bath towel around his waist. He held Harry’s wand out for him.

“It didn’t work, did it?”

Voldemort’s mouth pressed into a line of annoyance.

“Your wand is temperamental.”

“It works just fine for me,” Harry replied. “And I don’t know how to make a Portkey.”

“I’ll show you.” Voldemort looked at him expectantly.

“I’m not doing it now,” said Harry.

“Did you stay in one spot when you were hiding from me?” Voldemort demanded. “We need to leave England. Now.”

“I’m not packing everything up this second,” Harry snapped. “I’m exhausted.”

“Fine.”

Swishing like a robe, the towel swung about Voldemort’s legs as he departed. Dripping water, Harry clambered back to his feet, snatched a spare towel from the sink, and hurried after him. He entered the main room in time to see Voldemort pick up his Cloak from where it draped across the back of an armchair. He quickly retrieved his glasses from the kitchen table.

“Where are you going?”

“Getting a wand.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Excuse me?” Voldemort asked coldly.

“You’re going to get caught!” Harry stormed.

Voldemort’s sniffed disdainfully. He turned to the entrance. “I’ll be back shortly.”

With quick steps, Harry darted in front of him, blocking the tent’s flap. Voldemort narrowed his eyes.

“Do you not trust me with a wand?”

“You can’t just stroll out there and get a wand!” Harry cried. “You’re the most wanted man in the world!”

“Answer the question,” said Voldemort dangerously, ignoring Harry’s outburst. “Do you trust me to wield a wand?”

“Of course I do,” said Harry.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “You hesitated.”

“Oh for God’s — You want a wand?” Harry snapped. “I’ll get you a wand.”

Harry snatched his Cloak and wand back form Voldemort’s hands. Before he could stop him, he stormed out of the tent, still only dressed in a bath towel. He turned sharply on his heel to Disapparate —

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Blood sprayed across his glasses. He hit the ground hard. His left arm had been severed.

**xXx**

Voldemort saw it happen. Blood shot in an arc as Harry fell with a thud on his back. With a sick, lifeless _thunk,_ his left arm landed two feet away. He was at Harry’s side in seconds. Blood gushed from his shoulder. Voldemort snatched up Harry’s wand and with a careful, precise twirl the arm reattached in a flash of light. Gasping and heaving, Harry clutched his shoulder. Voldemort closely inspected it.

“Is it supposed to still hurt?” Harry gritted, white as death.

“No,” said Voldemort frowning. He touched the shoulder and Harry recoiled with a pained gasp. He looked down at the wand in his hand, confused. “That should have worked.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry swore under his breath.

“It appears to be partially healed,” Voldemort observed.

He got him back inside the tent. He cleaned the blood away. A livid, angry bruise was already spreading across Harry’s shoulder.

“We need to keep it immobile.” He retrieved his robes and ripped strips of cloth.

“Fuck,” Harry bit under his breath as Voldemort tied the strips into a sling. “It feels broken.”

“It isn’t.”

Hopefully.

Voldemort brandished Harry’s wand again, cleaning the sheets of the lower bunk. He scowled. Well, they were _cleaner_ , at least. Harry was in too much pain to care. Propped against a stack of pillows, he shut his eyes, looking green. But the moment Voldemort moved away, heading for the tent’s flap, he cried out in alarm, “Where are you going?”

“ _Stay_ ,” Voldemort ordered, already stepping outside. He glared about the empty forest. If anyone had been out hiking, they would have heard Harry’s screams. Voldemort waited, scanning the trees, senses on high alert. He slipped back inside the tent and zipped up the entrance. Harry was staring at him, worried.

“Is there anyone …”

“No,” Voldemort answered. “But we should be cautious.”

Harry nodded. “Sorry.”

“The fault lies with me,” Voldemort countered sharply. He glared at the wand in his hand. It felt entirely wrong under his fingers. “I was impatient.”

Harry sat back up, graying further.

“Show me how to make a Portkey. Where do you want to go?”

“You are going to rest,” said Voldemort firmly. “You lost too much blood and I’ve kept you awake.”

“But —”

“ _Rest_.”

Harry let the matter lie. Eventually he drifted off and Voldemort sat in an armchair, twirling the Hawthorn between his fingers. First Lucius’ wand, then the Deathstick, and now this plain Hawthorn … Why was his yew the only wand that served him with unwavering obedience? Surely a wizard as powerful as he should be able to bend any wand’s will? He longed for his old wand in a way he had not since his banishment, but there would be no retrieving the yew. Voldemort was sure of that. The Order had most likely destroyed it.

**xXx**

Harry woke to the smell of sausages. He slipped on his glasses and stared at the sight, wondering if he was actually still asleep and dreaming. Wearing Ron’s old dressing gown, Voldemort stood by the stove, rolling sausages about in a skillet. Harry sat up and winced, shoulder smarting. Voldemort turned at the sound. He crossed the tent to him. He unwound the sling. Harry’s shoulder was purple, black and green.

“How does it feel?” Voldemort asked.

“Better than it looks,” said Harry, unnerved by the sight.

“Good. You’re mending quickly.” He refastened the sling and returned to the sizzling pan.

Careful not to jostle his shoulder, Harry rose from the bed. He sat at the kitchen table, watching Voldemort cook.

“Did you give me anything?” Harry asked.

“No. Why?”

“Because I must be dreaming.”

Voldemort smirked at him over his shoulder. He lifted the skillet from the stove and set it on the table. He fished two sausages onto a plate and sliced them into bite-sized pieces.

“I’m not impressed with your supply gathering. All starch and meat. You should eat your vegetables, Harry.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “This coming from someone who literally doesn’t eat anything ever.” He popped a piece of sausage into his mouth.

Voldemort leaned down, cupped the back of Harry’s neck and kissed him. His tongue swiped the sausage, stealing it. Completely caught off guard, Harry stared openly as Voldemort chewed.

“Not bad.”

Harry blushed to the roots of his hair. Cool and composed, as if he hadn’t just done anything remotely erotic, Voldemort pulled up a chair.

“The Caribbean is where we should head.”

“I — What?”

“The Caribbean.” Voldemort’s deft fingers plucked a sausage slice from the plate. “We’ll need at least two Portkeys to make the journey.”

“What about getting you a wand?” Harry asked. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like I don’t want you to have one.”

“I doesn’t matter.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“I’ll be fine without one. I’ve always been interested in wandless magic, but have never taken the time to properly learn. This will be a welcome opportunity.”

“But …” Harry was bamboozled. Voldemort _not_ wanting a wand? He might as well have said he longed to be dentist. “But … we can find you one. I know we can.”

“No need,” said Voldemort crisply. “ _You_ will get us where we need to go.” Voldemort pushed the salt shaker toward him.

“Your first lesson starts now.”

Harry’s insides twisted uncomfortably. Stalling for time, he asked, “Why the Caribbean?”

“Why not?”

Harry wondered if Voldemort was joking.

“Because you’ll get roasted?”

Voldemort laughed, loud and clear and high and unlike all the other times Harry had heard his laugh before, he was not frightened by it.

“Then you pick the place. I’ll go where you go, as long as it’s not —”

“In Britain,” Harry grumbled. “I know.”

“Or Europe. We need to get away from here, Harry. The sooner, the better.”

Harry’s throat tightened, but he nodded.

* * *

Later that night, as they lay together in bed, Harry couldn’t fall asleep. Voldemort, miraculously, was. As he listened to the crickets and foxes chatter, Harry could not shake the unease in his gut that had churned to life during the day. What had happened to Ron and Hermione? Had Robards forced Veritaserum down their throats? Had they been deemed traitors for helping him? And Neville …

God, Neville. _Why_ had he been in the forest? The look of betrayal on his face haunted Harry. Hagrid, Luna, Ginny, George; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; McGonagall and Kingsley … they didn’t deserve this. If Harry could just explain, but though he played scenario after scenario, the ending was always the same: Voldemort imprisoned; Voldemort executed. Harry didn’t want to leave England. He didn’t want to live the rest of his life in hiding. He wanted his friends and he wanted Voldemort. That shouldn’t be impossible.

Voldemort’s breath ghosted against his ear.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said swiftly.

“Harry,” Voldemort said dully, voice muddled with sleep, “I know when you’re upset.”

“I’m not —”

“And I know when you’re lying.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried,” Harry admitted. “I don’t know what’s happening with the others and I’m worried.”

Voldemort released a long sigh.

“Everything will go back to the way it was before, or, thereabout. Without me controlling them, the Death Eaters will dismantle. The transition will be messy, but England will revert back.”

“I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

Harry felt Voldemort’s impatience like a rise in temperature.

“They’re my friends,” Harry insisted. “I can’t leave like that. I can’t.”

“You have to,” said Voldemort severely. “You must sever your ties. There is no other way. I’m sorry to be cruel, but you know I’m right.”

Harry’s heart hurt. He blinked rapidly, staring up at the underside of the upper bunk, unable to speak.

Voldemort’s lips touched his cheek. “Would you like some tea?”

“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” And then something dawned on Harry. “I thought you didn’t need to sleep.”

“My transformation made sleep, like food, unnecessary,” Voldemort explained. “But even before my Horcruxes, I struggled to find rest. Recently, I’ve discovered that the problem has improved.” 

“What have you done differently?”

Voldemort’s hand slid across Harry’s stomach.

“You’re in my bed.”

A watery smile lifted Harry’s lips, but even Voldemort’s kiss could not lessen the pain in his heart and the sadness that was building a home there.

A loud twittering outside the tent interrupted them. It sounded almost like …

Harry left the bed. He unzipped the tent’s entrance with his uninjured arm and a tiny, golden, feathery ball zoomed inside.

“Pip!”

The snidget landed on his finger, piping his high-pitched trill.

“I regret that gift,” said Voldemort, wincing at Pip’s enthusiastic singing.

“I don’t,” said Harry.

Wings beating madly, Pip zipped three times around the tent before settling inside a teacup.

* * *

“Remember, you deliver this _only_ to Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger,” Harry whispered, quickly securing the tiniest of notes to Pip’s leg. Harry shot another look at the shut bathroom door. The shower still ran. “Not anyone else. And don’t let anyone see you.”

Message by patronus would have been faster, but disastrous. Harry hoped that Pip, being so small, would travel unnoticed.

Pip hopped up and down.

“Be careful and be fast.”

Minuscule note finally attached, Pip shot into the air and out through the flap in a whirlwind of feathers.

* * *

Though it still twinged slightly, Harry’s shoulder was virtually healed, even the bruising had subsided. The nights turned cold. Each morning, the tent was encased in frost. Winter was around the corner. Harry didn’t know how long they had been in the tent, tucked away in the forest, but their supplies from his initial procurement were nearly gone. Pip had not returned.

“Where is that pestilent bird?” Voldemort asked, finally noticing.

“Somewhere,” Harry replied. “He’ll be back.”

Voldemort seemed satisfied with the answer. He removed the spent teacups from the table so only the salt shaker remained. Harry pulled his wand from his pocket. His pulse quickened. He pointed his wand at the shaker.

“Portus.”

Nothing happened. Harry strengthened his grip.

“ _Portus_.”

Voldemort watched, face expressionless, as Harry failed yet again.

“You are not trying.”

“Yes, I am,” said Harry.

“No, you’re not,” said Voldemort fiercely. His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. “Where is the bird?”

“I told you,” said Harry, not making eye contact. “He flew off.”

“Flew off _with a message_?” Voldemort asked softly.

Harry’s silence was answer enough and Voldemort’s anger was volcanic.

“You jeopardize our safety for something as moronic —”

“I can’t leave without saying anything! I won’t do that!”

“You cannot have both, Harry!” Voldemort seethed. “Don’t you understand? We are on the _run._ They will catch us and they will kill us.”

Harry’s throat constricted.

“Make the Portkey,” Voldemort ordered. “ _Now._ ”

Harry shook his head. “Not until I say goodbye.”

“I am not asking,” said Voldemort dangerously. “Make the Portkey.”

Harry put his wand in his pocket and crossed his arms.

“ _Potter!_ ”

At Voldemort’s shout, cracks like gunfire sounded outside the tent. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Duck!”

But it was too late. The tent’s opening tore open and silver ropes encircled them. Harry’s legs and arms snapped together as the ropes ensnared him. With an _umph_ he fell to the ground, Voldemort doing the same.

Harry looked up as a man stepped into the tent. He wore expensive robes. His blond hair was long and tied into a loose ponytail. Around his neck hung a golden emblem. Harry’s heart quickened as the Deathly Hallows winked in the tent’s lamplight.

“Mathis,” Voldemort hissed.

“Good afternoon, my Lord.” But the man — Mathis — wasn’t looking at Voldemort. His eyes were focused on Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left!!!!


	14. Chapter 14

Voldemort didn’t like the way Mathis looked at Harry.

“Harry Potter. Finally, we meet.”

“Who are you?” Harry demanded, equally unnerved.

“I am Alexander Mathis,” said Mathis, bestowing Harry a short bow as Death Eaters filed into the tent. “Apologies for cursing your surname. Perhaps Bella can be swayed to lift it …”

Bella glared at Harry venomously.

“Or perhaps not,” said Mathis with a pleasant smile. “It takes a great deal of spite to cast such a spell. Oh well. Search the tent,” he ordered crisply.

Disturbingly, the Death Eaters jumped to action.

“So this is why you came to me.” Voldemort fought his bindings. “To take my place.”

He was pleased that a few Death Eaters could not meet his eyes and kept a wide berth as they rooted about the tent, but Mathis took Voldemort in calmly.

“If the captain jumps ship, someone must take the helm,” Mathis replied. “In our case, two someones.” He gave Bella a little salute.

“Don’t try my patience, Mathis,” said Bella harshly. “I want Potter dealt with.”

“All in good time, Bella,” said Mathis. “Once I have what I need, he is all yours.”

“Is this it?”

Rookwood held up Harry’s invisibility cloak. Mathis’ eyes alighted. He took it, letting the material slip like woven water over his palms.

“Magnificent,” he whispered reverently.

“You have what you want,” said Bella. She aimed her wand at Harry’s heart.

Mathis placed his hand upon her wrist, stilling her. “Nearly.” He turned his gaze back to Harry. “I have searched many years for you, _Master of Death_.”

Harry stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Mathis disagreed, still smiling. “You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”

“I sure as hell don’t,” Fenrir Greyback muttered at which others echoed his sentiments. “What d’you mean, _Master of Death_?”

Bella’s jaws ground, her impatience mounting.

“Then I shall explain,” said Mathis congenially, “unless you would prefer to, Mr. Potter? No? So be it. Eons ago, three exceptionally powerful artifacts were created: a cloak of invisibility, a wand of elder, and a river stone to resurrect the dead. They were named the Deathly Hallows and the wizard, or witch, who controlled them was deemed Master of Death.”

“Isn’t that a children’s story?” Rabastan sneered. “You’re talking about a fairy tale.”

“I assure you, it is far more than a fairy tale,” said Mathis, “and I can prove it. Mr. Potter is going to enter the Death Veil and bring Gellert Grindelwald back from the dead. If I am wrong and he is not who I believe he is, the Veil will kill him. If it does _not_ kill him, he will be passed to you, to kill in any means you see fit. Is that sufficiently satisfying, Bella?”

Bella, like the rest of the Death Eaters upon hearing Mathis’ plan, looked thoroughly taken aback, but her lips twisted into a vicious smile.

“Perfectly sufficient.”

“But if he’s immortal …” Yaxley began, uneasy.

“Even immortality has its limits,” Mathis quipped. “I imagine Mr. Potter would not fare so well if, for instance, his head was removed from his shoulders.”

The Death Eaters laughed. Macnair approached Harry, holding a sack.

“Touch him and I will rip you to shreds,” Voldemort snarled. Master of Death … Deathly Hallows … Voldemort had never heard of any of it, but he knew for a fact what would happen if Harry stepped through that veil.

Macnair stopped in his tracks, wary. “Perhaps you should,” he said to Mathis.

Mathis looked amused. He draped Harry’s cloak over his forearm, plucked the sack from Macnair’s fingers and slid it over Harry’s head. A second later, Voldemort’s vision blackened as a similar sack fell over his eyes. A firm hand gripped his arm and he was yanked away with Side-Along Apparition. His feet his solid ground. His arms remained firmly tied to his sides but the ropes around his legs turned into shackles. Chains clanked, connecting them.

“Walk,” Mathis ordered.

Someone prodded Voldemort hard in the back. He heard more clanking and shuffling steps: Harry, in front or behind — it was impossible to tell.

“Out of the way!” Bella commanded.

Voldemort heard the Ministry workers scuttle from their path.

Metal on metal, gears grinding — they stepped into a lift.

“The Department of Mysteries,” the bodiless operator announced.

Voldemort’s blood thrummed in his ears.

“Move,” said Greyback with a happy shove.

Voldemort gritted his teeth. The werewolf would be the first to die. They stopped again and Voldemort heard the faint sputtering of ever-burning candles and now they treaded down severe steps. Down, down, down.

The sack was pulled from his head. Voldemort blinked in the sudden brightness of the Death Chamber. Before them, in the center of the sunken room, the Death Veil rippled on its crumbling archway. The Death Eaters closed rank, watching Mathis and Harry like hungry spectators.

They were outnumbered. Forty Death Eaters, all with their wands trained upon them. Mathis flicked his wand and the ropes and chains fell from Harry’s wrists and ankles.

“Up you go,” said Mathis, forcing Harry to mount the steps to the archway at wand point. As if it sensed him, the Veil rustled. It reached for him, nearly touching him.

With the force of a hurricane, Voldemort’s magic exploded outward, knocking the Death Eaters flat. The bindings disintegrated; he was free. His magic lashed out in blistering, untamed waves.

“HOLD HIM!” Bella shrieked.

Stunners hit him and his knees buckled, _but he_ _would not fall_. Ropes encircled his arms _._ He gritted his teeth, fighting to throw them off. On the platform, Harry plunged his hand into his pocket for his wand but Mathis was faster. With a bang like a gunshot Harry was thrown off his feet. He fell back through the Veil.

“No!” Voldemort screamed. “NO!”

His magic left him. His knees hit the ground. Ropes wrapped him up in a cocoon. The Veil fluttered as if in a high wind.

It stilled.

Harry was gone.

**xXx**

Harry landed on his front with a grunt, the air knocked from his lungs. He was not in Kings Cross, as had happened the previous time he’d died. He was in an old-fashioned house, in what looked like a study. Oil paintings and books cluttered the room and taking up a large portion of one wall was a large aquarium, filled with fluttering butterflies. Amber sunlight streamed through open windows. Harry heard the buzzing of bees and smelled roses. A man dressed in fine robes stood with his back to Harry. He was pouring something from a bottle, filling two fluted glasses.

“I believe this is the best batch you’ve made yet, Albus.”

Glasses in hand, the man turned. He froze, eyes landing upon Harry. The smile on his face vaporized.

“What are you doing here?”

Harry got to his feet. Though he had only seen this man in memories and visions — very young and then very old — Harry recognized his face.

“I was pushed through the Veil in the Ministry,” Harry explained. “Am I dead?”

“Of course you’re not dead,” Grindelwald snapped. He set down the glasses. He looked thoroughly irritated, as if Harry had completely ruined is evening. “You’d know if you were. What the hell are you thinking, boy?”

“I was forced in here,” said Harry, insulted that Grindelwald would think otherwise. “A wizard threw me in to resurrect _you_.”

“Resurrect me?” Grindelwald laughed. “Why in heaven’s name would I rejoin the living?”

“I don’t know,” Harry gritted. “To start another war, probably.”

Harry felt very strange, almost as if he’d left half his body back in the Death Chamber. It was difficult to keep his balance and he gripped the back of a desk chair for support.

The levity left Grindelwald’s voice. “You shouldn’t be here.”

At his words, a tremor shook Harry. If he hadn’t already been holding onto the chair, he would have been flung to the ground. Grindelwald and the room were unaffected; not even the glasses had rattled on their tray.

“What was that?” Harry asked. The hairs on the back of his neck pricked.

“It knows you’re here,” Grindelwald replied. “It knows you’re trespassing.”

“It?” Harry asked as that invisible force shook him again. “What’s _It_?”

“You must leave,” Grindelwald insisted. “You must leave now.”

“And how do I do that?” Harry demanded as a terrifying thumping, like a war drum, pounded in his ears.

“The same way you came, obviously,” Grindelwald snapped impatiently. “Honestly, what did Albus see in you?”

**xXx**

Voldemort knelt upon the ground in a numb haze, watching the Veil sway. Mathis stood upon the dais, facing it, hands clasped behind his back as if he expected Harry to appear at any second, but that was impossible. Harry was dead. Harry was gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

“How long are we supposed to wait?” Rodolphus hissed.

Gone. Gone.

“My Lord.” Bella’s face appeared before Voldemort, blocking out the Veil. “Do not worry, my Lord,” she soothed. “All will be well again.”

“I am going to kill you.”

Bella faltered at the hatred in his voice.

Voldemort leveled his red gaze upon her. “I am going to kill all of you.”

The Death Eaters took hesitant steps back, but Bella refused to retreat. Voldemort could see his reflection in her dark eyes.

“Potter tricked you, my Lord. He corrupted you, filled you with his poison, but I will make you pure again.”

“Pure?” Voldemort’s teeth gnashed, riddled with a pain so acute that his chest could have been ripped open. “There was nothing more pure than him!”

He lunged at her, but the ropes kept him locked in place. She jumped back.

“I say we kill him before he kills us!” Yaxley cried.

“No!” Bella shouted. She turned back to Voldemort, wand drawn. “The Dark Lord has simply been enchanted. All traces of the boy must be removed.” She licked her lips, her eyes wild. She drew back her wand. “ _Oblivi —_ ”

Screams filled the chamber, bloody as bone saws. Voldemort had thought he would never hear cries more mad than the Heart Eaters, but this … Bella and the Death Eaters whirled around as the Veil whipped violently.

“What the fuck’s that?” Greyback shouted.

“Mathis?” Bella yelled, alarmed. “Mathis, what’s happening?”

“It’s working,” Mathis breathed. “It’s working!” He opened his arms wide. “Welcome, Lord Grindelwald! Welcome!”

But it was not Gellert Grindelwald who stepped through the Veil. It was Harry.

“Expelliarmus!”

Mathis’ wand jumped from his hand.

“No!” Bella shrieked. She sent a curse flying. It missed Harry, smashing into the ancient archway. “KILL HIM! _KILL HIM!_ ”

Harry darted back behind the Veil. Red, green, violet — the Death Eaters attacked. Mathis scrambled out of the way, pulling another wand from his robes. _The Elder Wand._

“Don’t kill him!” he roared, but seeing Potter step right from Death’s tomb had sent the Death Eaters into a petrified frenzy. Voldemort winced, eyes burning from the onslaught of color and flashes.

Finally, the attack ceased. Smoke filled the sunken pit.

“Is he dead?” Rabastan demanded in the silence. “ _Is he dead?_ ”

The smoke began to settle and the archway’s outline loomed into sight. Voldemort was astounded it still stood. Mathis charged forward.

“You fools! You blundering —”

A creature, black and tall as a dementor, exploded from the Veil. It flew at Mathis, engulfing him in its smoky shroud and Mathis fell to the ground, flesh and blood stripped away, leaving nothing but a skeleton behind.

The Death Eaters screamed as it flew to them. Spells shot straight through it. Its tattered, curtain-like robes soared over Rabastan and Dolohov. Their bones clattered to the ground. Abandoning the fight, the rest bolted, sprinting up the stairs for the door, but the creature, shrieking its bloody, horrific, death cry, was far quicker. Skulls bounced down the steps.

“ _Diffindo!”_

Voldemort whipped around as the ropes fell free. Harry pulled his invisibility cloak off his head.

“ _You’re alive._ ” Voldemort couldn’t believe it. “How …”

“Later!” Harry yanked on Voldemort’s arm.

But the Wraith was gorging on his followers, barring the door. There was no way out. Silently, trying not to rouse its notice, they retreated to the archway. Mathis’ skeleton clattered under Voldemort’s feet. He snatched up the Elder Wand as the Wraith shot back into the air, leaving a massacre of bones.

“Do you trust me?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” Voldemort answered.

As the Wraith turned upon them, Harry flung the Cloak over Voldemort’s shoulders; he wrapped his arms around Voldemort and leapt back through the Veil, taking Voldemort with him.

**xXx**

Fingers carded through his hair. Harry opened his eyes and met crimson.

“Are we dead?”

Voldemort shook his head. “How did you know you would be able to Apparate inside the Veil?”

“I didn’t.” Harry sat up with a groan. He and Voldemort were on a sunken, moth-chewed couch.

“Why this shack?” Voldemort asked.

Harry shrugged. He felt nauseous.

“It was the first thing that popped into my head. This was where I found out I was a wizard,” he added.

Voldemort eyed the creaking ceiling.

“A shack on a rock in the sea?”

“Yeah.” Harry grimaced. His head pounded.

“I don’t advise going through the Veil again,” said Voldemort, watching him.

Harry laughed and then winced. “I won’t.”

“How did you know the Cloak would protect me?”

“It’s in the story.” At Voldemort’s look of confusion, Harry explained, “The Tale of the Three Brothers. Death gives a Cloak of Invisibility to one of them and as long as he wears it, Death can’t find him.”

Voldemort stared at him for a long moment.

“So … that creature …”

“I don’t know what that was,” said Harry.

“It was Death.”

The idea was too unnerving to contemplate so Harry cracked a grin. “Or maybe just a really pissed off ghost?”

Voldemort did not look humored. He pulled the Elder Wand from his pocket and cradled it in his hands.

“Mathis came to me months ago. He wished to study the wand. It was no use to me, so I passed it over. If I had known what it was … If I had known he was after you …” Voldemort could not go on. He held the wand out for Harry to take. “I am leaving England and I want you to stay.”

“What?” said Harry, caught off guard. “No, we agreed —”

“Tell the Wizengamot I made you save me. Some will not believe you, but enough will. Tell them I controlled you.”

“You didn’t —”

“Tell them I did. You will be cleared.”

Harry shook his head, heart thumping. “We already discussed this. I’m staying with you.”

“You may be able to bear that,” said Voldemort, “but I cannot. I will not be the reason you condemn yourself to a life of exile.”

“Tom —”

“You deserve so much more. So much more than I can ever give you.”

“Stop telling me what you think I want!”

Voldemort took Harry’s hands in his.

“You know I’m right. You know you will not be happy cut off from the world. Cut off from everyone you love. Painted forever a traitor and a villain. You know it. You are just too loving to admit it.”

Harry’s vision blurred. His throat constricted.

“Where will you go?”

“The world is vast with secrets,” said Voldemort. “It would be a shame not to unlock them all. After all, I was an explorer before I was a Dark Lord.”

“Don’t get cornered by another mummy.”

Voldemort chuckled. “I will endeavor not to.” He cupped Harry’s face, rubbing a thumb across his cheek. “Be well, Harry.”

Emotion choked his vocal cords. He could do nothing as Voldemort chose a lump of burnt wood from the fireplace. He held it out for Harry. Eyes watering, Harry placed the tip of the Elder Wand against it. He pictured lagoons and deep foliage; sandy beaches and playful dolphins.

“Portus.”

The lump of wood vibrated in Voldemort’s palm and glowed faintly blue. There was just a flutter of seconds before the Portkey activated – their eyes locked, speaking words they could not utter, and then, as swift as a blink, Voldemort vanished.

* * *

“You told _Malfoy_ all of this,” said Ron indignantly, “and not _us_?”

“Malfoy thought he could trade his parents for me,” said Harry. “I had to tell him something. And it was easier to tell him.” Harry dropped his eyes to the mug of tea in his hands. “I didn’t really care what he thought about me.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes swam with tears.

Voldemort had been right. Without him or his Death Eaters, England returned to normal. Kingsley was voted in as temporary acting Minister until a proper election could be held, Robards returned to his post as Head of the Auror Department, and Harry was questioned by the Wizengamot. He told them what they wanted to hear: captured by Lord Voldemort, imprisoned and tortured and eventually controlled. The Daily Prophet expanded upon bits of leaked snippets into fat, full-length, front page articles, weaving a tale fit for the stage: Harry’s traumatic and heroic struggle to break free from Lord Voldemort’s clutches, according to Hermione, of course. Harry refused to read any of it. 

January blew in on the worst blizzard the country had seen in decades, finally giving the papers and wireless something new to obsess over. Harry was mercifully relegated to the tucked away gossip columns.

Voldemort had not been spotted, though an extensive manhunt raged across Europe. It was as if he’d been plucked right off the face of the planet.

* * *

Harry closed the lid of his trunk and locked the clasps.

With Bellatrix dead, Grimmauld Place had returned to Harry. It was gloomier than ever without Kreacher slouching down the halls. His body, like so many house elves during the Final Battle, had been lost, but Harry had placed a gravestone for him in the Black family mausoleum, right next to Regulus.

Harry looked over his shoulder. Hermione and Ron stood in the doorway.

“I won’t be gone forever,” Harry replied. “This isn’t goodbye.”

Ron sniffed, sounding like he had a bad head cold and Hermione nodded, looking close to tears again.

“I’ll be back every holiday,” Harry assured them. “And birthdays. Alright, every first Tuesday of every month, will that do?”

Hermione laughed through her tears and Ron hoisted up a grin.

“You’ll hardly notice I’m gone,” said Harry.

“Rubbish,” said Ron.

“Where do you think he is?” Hermione asked.

“Could be anywhere by now” said Harry, “but the Portkey I made went to the Caribbean.”

“ _The Caribbean?_ ” Ron let out a disbelieving laugh.

Harry shrugged. “It’s where he wanted to go.”

Ron was dumbfounded. “You-Know-Who, _the_ _Lobster_!”

“I still don’t understand how he found you on that planet,” said Hermione. “You can’t just astral project like that. It isn’t possible.”

“I think I made it happen,” said Harry.

“How d’you figure that?” Ron asked.

“I had been his Horcrux and he’d used my blood to resurrect himself. We’d become entwined on levels that no other wizards have ever been. Even though I wasn’t a Horcrux anymore maybe somehow, someway, being Master of Death allowed me to call to him, to bring him to me.” He smiled at the thought. “Or maybe we were both just that lonely.”

* * *

Luggage reduced to the size of walnut and stowed in his pocket, bundled up against the cold, and slightly bloodshot from his farewell to Ron and Hermione, Harry Apparated to Diagon Alley. Gold retrieved from Gringotts, Harry was pulling his gloves back on and heading for the door when Robards, flanked by the same two Aurors who had captured Voldemort, stepped before him, blocking his path.

“Auror Robards,” Harry greeted. “Doing some banking?”

“I know it was you.”

“Sorry?” Harry asked politely.

“The wand — _his_ wand,” Robards growled. “I know you stole it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t, do you?” Robards seethed. “And if searched your person —”

“I would contact my solicitor for unlawful search without probable cause or a warrant,” Harry replied coolly.

Robards’ scowl was of pure hatred.

“What were you doing at Malfoy Manor?” he demanded.

“Returning a book.” Harry looked at the man flanking Robards’ right. “Does it get boring following me around, Auror Kappelhoff?”

Robards turned a shade of puce to rival Uncle Vernon.

“You may have fooled the Wizengamot, but you haven’t fooled me,” he snarled, breath assaulting Harry’s nostrils. “I’m going to find out the truth, Potter. About _everything_. You-Know-Who … the massacre in the Death Chamber … stolen evidence.”

Harry’s expression was mildly interested. “Good luck with that.” He made to push past the men, but they closed ranks, blocking the Gringotts’ golden, gleaming doors.

“I hear you’re going off on holiday,” Robards pressed. “Where to?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sri Lanka maybe. I’m not a fan of all this snow.”

“Planning on meeting up with anyone _special_?” Robards asked.

“I don’t know anyone in Sri Lanka, Auror Robards.”

“Gentlemen.” A goblin appeared at their elbows looking deeply perturbed. “You are blocking the doors.” 

“Happy New Year!” Harry said to Robards, finally able to push past them. He trotted down the bank’s snow packed steps and Disapparated to the ocean rock and its shack. The snow had even reached here, great mounds of it heaped around the door and drifting through cracks in the roof. Harry pointed his wand at the cold fireplace. It burst into crackling light. Shivering, he held his gloved hands over the flames, warming them. He didn’t know how long he would have to wait. It could be hours. It could be days, but that didn’t concern Harry. He knew how to survive the cold.

But as it turned out, he didn’t have to wait as long as he thought. As it had been in the Drift, Harry felt Voldemort’s presence before he heard him. He turned, the sight of the man warming Harry more thoroughly than the fire could ever do.

Voldemort strode to him, looking deeply upset.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

Harry took in Voldemort’s face. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Voldemort looked both relieved and furious.

“Harry, you cannot send such a cryptic —”

“Pip’s very small.”

“I was terrified. I thought —”

“You try writing a nice, long letter on a piece of paper the size of a postal stamp.”

“Never again,” said Voldemort severely. “You send a _proper_ owl next time.”

Harry smiled.

“You’ve gotten good at wandless magic,” he observed. “Or … did you get one?”

“No,” said Voldemort. “I have not. And thank you, but I am far from being a master. The Portkey was a mile short. I landed on the beach.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t mind having this back?” Harry pulled the yew from his pocket.

Voldemort’s eyes went wide.

“I thought it had been destroyed.”

“Nah. The Ministry had it.”

Voldemort’s astonished eyes jerked back to Harry’s face.

“How did you get it from the Ministry?”

“I summoned it,” said Harry simply.

Voldemort’s hairless eyebrows shot up. “You summoned it? And how exactly were you able to summon a wand through the Ministry’s numerous layers of protection?”

In reply, Harry twirled his wand. It wasn’t the Hawthorn. It was the Elder.

“Numerous layers of protection doesn’t really slow it down,” said Harry.

Voldemort shook his head, astounded.

“I appreciate this gift, but Harry, you cannot do this again.”

Harry smiled again. Snow had fallen on Voldemort's black robes.

“The Wizengamot dropped all charges.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“I’m a free man.”

“As you should be.”

Harry took a step closer. He stared up into Voldemort’s face.

“I know what I want and I want you.”

Voldemort held his breath. His cat-like eyes dilated.

“Harry …”

“It took traveling across the stars to find each other,” said Harry. “I’m not going to let you go. Not now. Not ever. Take me away. Take me away with you.”

Voldemort’s Adam apple bobbed. His eyes shined. He took Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him. His breath filled Harry’s lungs. His arms wrapped around him and with complete silence, they vanished from the shack. Dust and snowflakes swirled in their wake, sparkling and spinning like constellations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels very surreal to have reached the end. I started this fic a long time ago, back when I was posting Of Your Making, but I set it aside. I’m really pleased with how it turned out and I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. Entwined has been such fun to share. Y’all astonished me with your comments and enthusiasm. You made it even more of a wonderful experience. 
> 
> A few things:
> 
> Yes, that ‘book’ Harry was seen returning to Malfoy Manor was in fact Draco’s wand. He kept his promise after all.
> 
> Yes, there will be a sequel. There are a few things I’d like to further explore, Harry and Neville’s relationship post war and Voldemort’s fear of mortality being some of them, but most importantly (and this is directed to @thefirecrest cuz you were reading my mind) I really need Mrs. Weasley to try to get Voldemort to eat a proper English breakfast.
> 
> I don’t know yet if the sequel will be the next thing I write though it is a very good contender.
> 
> And again, I just wanted to say _thank you so very, very much_. I write these stories for my own pleasure and the fact that so many of you left such heartwarming and supportive comments … you don’t know how happy you made me. You really don’t.
> 
> If you’re worried about missing the next time I post, be sure to subscribe to me or you can follow me on tumblr (purplewitch156.tumblr.com) where you can also chat with me anytime you like.
> 
> Until next time.
> 
> All my love,
> 
> purple


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